The storm had not penetrated inland; it was driven upcoast and out to sea. Dotti sat on the streambank, breakfasting on fresh fruit salad with her friends. The haremaid was now under instruction as a contender for King Bucko Bigbones’s crown.

Grenn read out the rules which had been delivered by the king’s seconds. “Two days from now, the three events will commence: the Bragging, the Feasting and the Fighting. The Bragging will take place on the eve of day one. Whichever beast wins the Brag will be the creature voted by common consent of the crowd to have outbragged the other. Dawn of day two the Feasting will commence; the victor will be the one left sitting, still eating, at sunset, or until one creature yields to the other. Noon of day three is the Fighting. No weapons or any arms whatsoever are allowed to be taken into the ring. All supporters and seconds must have vacated the ring by the time the crown is dropped. The king has the right to decide whether the contest be from scratch, or moving freely. The moment one beast cannot rise and continue fighting, the other will be declared the winner. Note: in the event of Bragging or Feasting being won, lost, or declared a tie, the winner of the Fighting will be declared outright king. These are the approved rules!”

Fleetscut laughed scathingly. “Bucko’s rules made by himself, eh? He’s only got to win the jolly old Fighting an’ he’s home’n’dry, wot?”

“That’s right, ole feller. King Bucko makes the rules in his own court—you’ve got t’be better’n him to change ’em!”

“Aye, an’ you’ve got to blinkin’ well prove it, too!”

They turned to see two extremely fit-looking young hares lounging nearby, taking everything in.

“I’ll give you young whelps something to think about if you don’t move yourselves!” Brocktree growled.

The hares did move, not away, but closer. They were obviously twin brothers, alike as peas in a pod. They spoke alternately, beginning or finishing off sentences, as if each knew what the other was thinking. Fleetscut was watching them closely as they addressed the badger.

“Don’t get touchy, sah, we’re on your an’ the pretty one’s side.”

“Rather, on the pretty one’s side especially, wot wot!”

“I’m Southpaw, an’ this fat ugly one’s Bobweave!”

“Fat ugly one? Go ’way, you bounder, let miss Dotti say. C’mon, miss, ain’t I the best-lookin’ one who cuts the finest figure? Tell the truth now!”

Fleetscut approached them, his paw extended. “I’ll tell you the truth, you young rips. Bobweave an’ Southpaw, eh? You’re the orphaned twins, grandsons of Stiffener Medick. I can see it in you both, fightin’ hares born an’ bred, wot!”

“Rather! How d’ye do, sah!”

“Pleased t’meet you, old chap!”

They exchanged greetings with all the party. Dotti took an immediate liking to the twins. Though they had the biggest, toughest-looking paws she had ever seen on a hare, both were extra gentle when they shook her paw.

Brocktree had changed his attitude, and was quite cordial with them. “So, friends, you have the looks of two very perilous beasts. How can you help us?”

Fleetscut threw a sudden barrage of punches at them. Still smiling and hardly taking notice, they repelled every blow in a casually expert manner. The old hare nodded. “Your grandpa talked about you night’n’day. Said you were the finest boxers on earth.”

They shuffled modestly.

“Oh, we keep ourselves busy, sah.”

“Always up t’the jolly old mark, y’know.”

Dotti was bursting to ask the athletic pair a question. “Er, beg pardon, chaps, but if you two are so good, then why haven’t you challenged King Bucko?”

“Quite simple really, miss Dotti.”

“Right. If I challenged Bucko an’ floored him, then I’d be King Southpaw. But I couldn’t give old Bobweave orders.”

“True, miss, an’ if I challenged Bucko an’ won, I’d be King Bobweave. Hah—imagine me tryin’ to give Southpaw orders?”

“Besides, Bucko Bigbones, between you’n’me’n’the gatepost, he’s a great big windbag, but he can be sly an’ dangerous as well. Makes all his own rules—an’ breaks ’em, too, wot!”

Jukka Sling was beginning to wave her tail impatiently. “Then canst thou tell us how the maid will defeat him?”

“Well, we can’t tell you exactly, marm, but we can help her by pointin’ out Bucko’s weaknesses.”

Gurth chuckled appreciatively. “Hur hur hurr, you’m be a-doin’ us’n’s a gurt favor if’n ee can, young zurrs. Tell away naow—we’m all ears!”

Dotti learned a great deal by listening to Bobweave and Southpaw. King Bucko liked to play jokes, but he hated the joke being on him; he was vain, quick-tempered and resorted to cheating at the blink of an eye. But he was surrounded by loyal mountain hares and, moreover, he was no fool at fighting and always won at any cost.

Ruff wagged a serious paw at the haremaid. “So you see, miss, Bucko ain’t no pushover. We got to figger how y’can use his faults agin him, upset his apple cart.”

“Smacka ’im tail wivva big stick. Dat’s wot Skikkles do!”

Mirklewort shooed her babe off with a dire warning. “H’I’ll smack yore tail wid a big stick! Go an’ play, yer liddle plague. Can’t yer see this is a serious conservation?”

Skittles climbed up onto Brocktree’s sword hilt and sulked. The Badger Lord reached up and patted the hogbabe’s paw. “Maybe Skittles has provided us with the answer!”

“Burr, you’m mean smacken ee king’s tail wi’ sticks, zurr?”

Brocktree scratched his stripes thoughtfully. “In a manner of speaking, yes. We smack his pride. Can you see what I’m getting at?”

Log a Log Grenn caught on to the idea immediately. “Aye, that’s ’ow Dotti’ll win, by keepin’ cool an’ calm. Turn the jokes on Bucko, get the supporters on ’er side.”

Jukka began warming to the plan. “Play the good-mannered, well-brought-up haremaid. Use thy wit against the braggart. Make him fall into his own traps!”

Dotti’s friends all began making suggestions to help her.

“Use his own weight against him. Duck an’ weave!”

“Aye, show him up to his supporters as a fraud an’ a cad, wot!”

“Keep y’nose in the air an’ dismiss Bucko as a ruffian!”

“Hurr, make ee king wrassle ee, miz Dott. Doan’t ee box ’im!”

“Don’t fret, miss, we’ll show you one or two boxin’ tricks!”

“Rather, an’ when he’s least expectin’ it, you can use ’em!”

“Right! We’ll outthink him at every turn!”

All that first summer’s day they sat on the streambank, working out a master plan. Dotti practiced her new role of the cool, calm and distant haremaid, though she had trouble avoiding the admiring glances of Southpaw and Bobweave, who were obviously smitten with her. Every now and then the twins would be so overcome that they would move further up the bank and box the ears off one another.

Kubba and Rukoo paddled up at midnoon, with the logboats strung out behind them. Kubba shipped paddles and looked questioningly at Grenn. “Wot’s goin’ on ’ere, marm? Are ye wagerin’ on which of those two hares’ll knock the other’s block off first?”

The Guosim Chieftain helped to moor the vessels. “Somethin’ like that. I’ll tell ye about it later.”

Over the next two days Dotti wrestled with Gurth, was instructed in the art of boxing by two very enthusiastic young hares, and listened to the wisdom of her elders. It was all very helpful and instructive, except for one thing. Part of her training included a strict diet: no food and precious little water. For a creature of her young appetite it was nothing less than sheer, brutal torture. When meals were served she was forced to sit in one of the logboats, guarded by Ruff, out of the sight of food. Nursing a beaker filled with water with a light sprinkle of crushed oats added to it, she glared at her otter friend.

“Rotten an’ stingy, that’s what you lot are, miserable grubswipers. When I’m a kingess—or d’you think queen sounds better?—I’ll banish the whole bally gang. Everybeast who refused a fatal young royal beauty a morsel, away with ’em!”

Ruff swiped her ears playfully. “’Tis only for yore own good, young ’un. You’ll thank us for this one day.”

“Oh, an’ pardon me, what day’ll that be, sah, wot?”

Glancing over her shoulder, Ruff whispered, “Hush ye now, miss, ’ere comes Bucko hisself.”

A light skiff with two mountain hares plying it drew alongside. Bucko was seated beneath a canopy with a jug of pale cider and a trayful of pasties and tarts. He grinned roguishly at his challenger.

“Weel now, ’tis a bonny summer noontide, lassie. Would ye no care for a tart or a pastie . . . mebbe a beaker o’ this guid pale cider? Join me, pretty one?”

Dotti blinked serenely. “Thank you kindly, but I’d rather not. I’ve just finished quite a large luncheon.”

Bucko bit into a tart, and blackcurrant juice ran down his chin. “Mmm, nought like a fresh blackcurrant tartie, mah pretty!”

Dotti took a dainty sip of her clouded oatmeal water. “Nought like a fresh mountain hare, I always say. Kindly remove yourself downstream, sah, your table manners offend me. There may be a few mad toads down there who’d be glad of your company. Toads aren’t too choosy, y’know.”

Bucko bolted the rest of the tart and licked his paws. “Och, an’ ye’d know aboot toads’ manners, I ken?”

Dotti gave him her sweetest smile. “Indeed I do. Mother always held them up to me as a bad example. Pity your mother hadn’t the sense to show you.”

Bucko scowled. He tried to stand up, but the skiff swayed. “Ah’ll thank ye tae leave mah mither oot o’ this. Another word aboot her an’ I’ll teach ye a braw sharp lesson!”

The haremaid stared down her nose at the irate king. “Pray save your threats until the appointed time, sah.”

Bucko signaled his hares to row on. “Ye’d do weel to mind that there’s many a beastie got themselves slain by their ain sharp tongue!” he called back to Dotti.

Dotti waved delicately to him with a clean kerchief. “Just so, sah, an’ you’d do well to know that there’s many a creature with a sloppy tongue slipped an’ broke their neck upon it. Toodleoo an’ all that!”

Ruff squeezed Dotti’s paw as the hare’s boat pulled upstream, his face wreathed in a big smile. “Full marks, miss. You was magnificent!”

Dotti kept up the pose, simpering and fluttering her lids. “Why thank you, my good fellow. Did it earn one perhaps a smidgen of that woodland trifle which Gurth made, wot?”

The otter shook his head firmly. “’Fraid not, miss.”

“Yah, go an’ boil your beastly head, y’great slabsided boatnosed planktailed excuse for a worthless water-walloper!”

Brocktree poked his striped head through the willow fronds. “Did our young lady say something then, Ruff?”

“Bless ’er grateful liddle ’eart, she did, sir. She was just thankin’ us fer all the trouble we’re takin’ over ’er eddication. She’s fair overcome with gratitood!”

The Badger Lord waggled his paw at Dotti. “Mustn’t get overexcited now, must we, missie? Time for your afternoon nap—remember ’tis the Bragging challenge tomorrow evening. Can’t have you overtiring yourself, can we?”

Sitting with the luncheon party, Jukka Sling put aside her bowl of cold mint tea. She listened wide-eyed to Dotti telling Ruff and Brocktree what she thought of them.

“Zounds! Methinks yon haremaid could give young Grood a lesson in choice language. Grood, cover thy ears!”

*

It was the evening of the first day. Crowds gathered at the log-bounded arena amid a festive air. There was music, singing, the sound of picnic hampers being shared and banter from supporters on both sides. Candied fruit and treasured possessions—knives, belts, tail and paw rings of precious materials, some studded with glinting stones—were changing paws as betting opened. As usual, Bucko was the firm favorite. Nobeast had ever seen him lose, so they weren’t about to wager on an outsider.

Amid a roll of drums and a blast from a battered bugle, King Bucko Bigbones entered the ring, with an honor guard of his cronies. He wore his broad belt, his cloak, two silver paw rings and the laurel-twined crown perched on his brow at a jaunty angle. Whirling the cloak dramatically, he shed it and threw the garment to his minions. Then he paraded around the perimeter, acknowledging the cheers by leaping high, with one clenched paw held up.

Dotti wore a demure cloak of light blue, with the slightest hint of a frill at its neck. She carried her bag and stood patiently while Mirklewort and Jukka made final adjustments to her flowered straw bonnet, specially loaned to her by Mirklewort for the occasion. Southpaw and Bobweave gallantly helped her over the log barrier, and she entered the arena alone. The bankvole referee puffed himself up officiously and roared in his stentorian voice, “Gentlebeasts aaaaall! Praaay silence for the Braggin’. Kiiiing Bucko will not remove ’is crown for this h’event. The winnaaaah will be judged by the popular h’opinion h’of your very good selves. The challengeaaaaah this h’evenin’ is Miss Dorothea Duckworthy Dillfontein h’of Mossflowaaaaah!”

There was a smattering of applause. Dotti tapped the bankvole. “Correction, my good sah, the name’s Duckfontein Dillworthy. Would you kindly reannounce me, please?”

The pompous bankvole was forced to comply with her request. This brought a few encouraging laughs and some shouts.

“That’s the stuff, miss. You tell the ole windbag!”

“A gel that jolly well stands up for herself, wot. Good show!”

The bankvole cut them short with a glare, then he shouted, “Let the Braggin’ staaaaaaaart!”

Silence fell on the crowd. Dotti stood quite still in the center of the ring and said nothing. Bucko paced about the edges, as if stalking her. Suddenly he did a splendid cartwheel and a breathtaking leap. He landed very close to Dotti, who did not flinch, and began his brag.

“Yerrahooo! Ah’m the mighty monarch frae the mountains! Mah name’s King Bucko Bigbones. Whit d’ye think o’ that, mah bonnie wee lassie?”

Dotti ignored him and waved cheerily to her friends. “Isn’t he clever? He knows his own name. It must have taken him simply ages to learn it, wot?”

There was a ripple of laughter from the crowd.

Bucko stamped until dust rose, and leapt clear over Dotti’s head. Still she did not move from her place. Bucko thrust out his barrel chest and thumped it.

“Ah’m nae feart o’ anybeast. Ah wiz born on a moonless night ’midst thunder’n’lightnin’!”

Amid the hush that followed, Dotti carefully wiped a speck of dust from her paw with a lace-edged kerchief. “Tut tut, what dreadful weather you had. Did you get wet?”

This time the laughter increased. Raucous guffaws could be heard, some with a distinct mountain hare tone to them. Bucko had to wait for the merriment to subside, his jaw and his paws clenched tight.

He thrust his face forward until he was eye to eye with Dotti, and his big voice boomed forth. “Yerrahoo, wee beastie, have ye ever looked death straight in the eye, eh? Then look at him whit stands afore ye!”

The crowd waited with bated breath. Dotti peered even closer at her opponent, until her nose touched his. “Hmm, you do look a little peaky, sah. All that shouting can’t be doing you much good—all that jumping about, too. Have you got a pain in your tummy, is that it?”

Roars and hoots of laughter greeted this remark. Creatures at the ringside were wiping tears from their eyes.

“Yahahaha! Pain in the tummy, that’s a good ’un!”

King Bucko was shaking all over. Glaring murderously at Dotti he gripped both paws, raising them over her head as if he were going to bring them down and crush her. She nodded in prim approval of his action. “Bit of exercise, sah, good! My mother always says exercise is the best cure for tummy ache. Come on now, hup! Down! Hup! Breathe through your nose, head well back, sah!”

She moved just as Bucko’s paws came crashing down, one of them catching her shoulder, knocking her slightly off balance. The crowd booed.

“Foul! Foul play, sir!”

“He struck the little haremaid!”

Several hares, Baron Drucco, Ruff and the bankvole referee leapt the logs and rushed forward. The hares and Drucco restrained Bucko, and Ruff placed a paw about Dotti, while the bankvole placed himself between the contestants, bellowing, “Disqualification! Yore Majesty ’as broke the roooools! No creature, h’I said nooooo creature, h’is allowed to strike h’another at a Braggin’ challenge. H’out o’ this h’arena, sire, h’out this very h’instant!”

Bucko grabbed his cloak and pushed through the crowd, knocking creatures this way and that in his haste to flee the scene of his disgrace.

Jubilation reigned. Dotti was swept shoulder high and carried around the ring several times. Stamping, whistling and shouting, the crowd cheered her to the echo. Gurth and Fleetscut waved to her as she was borne past them; the old hare was overjoyed.

“I say, good show, absolutely top hole performance from the young ’un, eh, Gurth, wot wot!”

“Hoo urr, our miz Dott winned fur’n’square, zurr, but she’m ’ave t’do wotten she’m be told, an’ not go a-getten swell-’eaded. Ee king be still gurtly dangerous. Hurr!”

When the shouting had died down, Lord Brocktree refused numerous offers for Dotti to attend feasts and parties in her honor. He whisked the haremaid back to their camp beneath the willows. Deaf to her protestations and appeals for food, Brocktree and Grenn ordered her to bed down in a shrew logboat. Moreover, they posted sentries on the streambank, to ensure that she did as she was told. Log a Log Grenn was as stern a taskmistress as any badger.

“You get some sleep now, young ’un. Fergit food. As of dawn tomorrer, yore goin’ t’wish you’d never seen drink or vittles. The contest goes from sunrise to sunset—’twill be a long day for ye, so close yore eyes. You Guosim, keep yore eyes open, or ye’ll answer to me!”

Southpaw and Bobweave had been missing since the end of the Bragging contest. Grenn joined the others on the streambank as supper was served. “Are those hare twins back yet?”

Baron Drucco peered out into the darkness. “No sign of ’em yet, marm. You know ’ares, they’ve prob’ly gone off to some celerybrayshun or other.”

Grenn looked to Mirklewort. “Celerybrayshun?”

The hogwife touched her snout knowingly. “Don’t let our big words fool ye, marm—Drucco means they’ve gone off to a party. Oh no they ’aven’t, ’ere they come now.”

Southpaw and Bobweave slipped into camp and helped themselves to supper.

“Sooper dooper, scones with strawberry preserve, wot!”

“An’ hot mulled pennycloud’n’bulrush cordial. I say, you chaps certainly know your vittles from your vitals, eh!”

Gurth tapped his digging claws impatiently. “Did ee get yon jobs, zurrs, tell us’n’s?”

The hare twins laughed, as if sharing a secret joke.

“Oh, the jobs of waitin’ on table, you mean?”

“I’ll jolly well say we did, eh, South?”

“Rather. That old head cook’ll do absolutely anythin’ for three flagons o’ pale cider, wot!”

Drucco waddled angrily over to them. “So that’s wot’s ’appened to me fine pale cider. All three flagons! I was savin’ that for me Season Spikeday!”

Mirklewort clipped one of his headspikes neatly with her ax. “Stop moanin’, Drucco, yew’ll wake Skiddles. Lissen, if’n we wants the ’aremaid to win we’ve got to make sacriphones!”

Fleetscut chuckled. “Aye, an’ some sacrifices, too, marm.”

Mirklewort nodded sagely. “Them, too!”

Brocktree took off his sword and lay down by the fire. “Good. I hope this plan of yours and Ruff’s works out, Grenn.”

Unsheathing her rapier, the Guosim Chieftain stuck it in the ground and lay down next to it. “Aye, I hope so, too. ’Tis costing the Guosim their last keg of old plum’n’beetroot wine!”

Ruff chided her. “Oh, come on, Grenn, stop whinin’ about yore wine. Hoho, that’s a good ’un, whinin’ about wine!”

But Grenn did not see the joke. “We’ve carried that keg with us more seasons than I care to remember. There ain’t a wine like it in all Mossflower—ask any Guosim. One drop of it can cure any ailment of ’ead or stomach. It can clear up coughs, sniffles an’ colds in the wink of an eye, take my word for it!”

The hare twins shared the last of the scones.

“Should do the trick then, wot!”

“Aye, provided miss Dotti knows her blinkin’ lines!”