CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Very Bad News

In which our heroes learn of Humphrey’s fate.

It was a grim and exhausted trio that convened before the fire in the library of Toad Hall that night, worn and filthy.

“Not a trace,” muttered Mole. “Not a jot, not a tittle.”53

“But that’s a good thing,” said the downcast Rat. “Isn’t it? If he … if he were hurt, or … or worse … we’d have found some kind of sign.” The others looked at him in silence. He added uncertainly, “Wouldn’t we?”

“The thing I don’t understand,” rumbled Badger, “is why the gardener’s second-best wheelbarrow is missing. It’s got to mean something, but I can’t for the life of me figure it out.”

“And why haven’t we heard from Toad?” said Mole. “His own flesh-and-blood gone missing, and we haven’t heard a word. P’raps we should send him another telegram tomorrow.”

They stared in dismal silence at the flickering fire, which crackled and sparked cheerily, oblivious to the heavy gloom that permeated the three friends.

Finally Badger said, “We’ve done everything we can for today. I propose we all spend the night here and get up early in the morning for a fresh start.” The Badger, a creature of habit, loathed spending the night away from the familiar comforts of his own burrow. The other two were well aware of this and rightly interpreted his volunteering to stay as a statement that he was, in fact, worried sick.

“Right,” said Rat dispiritedly. “Off to bed it is.”

They trudged up the grand staircase to the guest wing. Before turning in, Mole looked in on Humphrey’s silent bedroom one last time, as if hoping that the mute objects tidily stacked there, the chemistry set, the many books, even the kite, could somehow reveal their young master’s plight.

*   *   *

The next morning found them poorly rested and ill-tempered. They sat in the breakfast room and, despite having no real appetite, forced themselves to down many bowls of thick porridge and cups of sugared tea, fortifying themselves for the long day ahead. There was still no telegram, no letter, no word at all from Toad.

“It’s bad enough we have to worry about Humphrey,” complained Ratty, “but now we have to worry about Toad as well.”

“No, we don’t,” snapped Badger. “I refuse to worry about that boneheaded animal. Let him worry about himself. We need only concern ourselves with Humphrey.”

“But, Badger,” protested the Mole, “what more can we do? We’ve searched everywhere.”

Badger fixed his gaze on Mole with a lowered brow. “We have not searched everywhere. We have not searched the Wild Wood.”

A millipede of fear skittered down the Mole’s spine. He shuddered and said vehemently, “Surely he wouldn’t have gone there. He knows better.”

The Rat said, “Badger’s absolutely right. We have to go in. Don’t worry, Moly. You and I will stick together. We’ll arm ourselves to the teeth, and we’ll be sure to get out before dark. That’ll be all right, won’t it, Badger?”

Badger, who was the only one of them large enough and formidable enough to travel through the Wild Wood alone, nodded gravely.

Rat led them into the weapons room and distributed to each of them a stout cudgel, a pistol, and a thick belt in which to tuck them. Then it was down to the kitchen for a packet of sandwiches and a flask of tea. Just as they were finishing their preparations, a tentative knock sounded on the kitchen door.

“Humphrey!” cried Rat. “He’s home!” He leapt to the door and flung it open. But instead of Humphrey, there stood a small, bedraggled weasel.

“What do you want?” said the Rat crossly. “We’ve no time for you at the moment. Come back another time.”

Mole, who had a few days earlier noted the weasel and Humphrey cavorting on the lawn with a kite, said not unkindly, “Come in, come in, but be quick about it.”

The weasel quaked with fear at the sight of the armed band, fearsome as any brigands. He said faintly, “P-please, sir. I’m not supposed to be here. You won’t tell anyone, will you?”

“Speak up,” said the Mole.

“It-it-it’s—” stammered the weasel.

“You’re Sammy, right? Come along, now. Out with it,” said the Mole, shaking him a bit more roughly than he meant to, for he was a very worried Mole indeed.

The shaking did the trick, loosening the words that had stuck in Sammy’s throat. “It’s Humphrey, Mr. Mole, sir. He’s in the Wild Wood.”

“You know that for a fact?” said Badger ominously.

“Oh,” Sammy whispered, “I’m not supposed to tell you. There’ll be such trouble.”

“There’ll be real trouble in a minute if you don’t tell us what you know,” snarled the Badger, advancing on the shivering animal. Sammy, faced with such a dreadful apparition, took the only sensible course of action open to him and fainted clean away. He came around a few minutes later to find the Mole flapping a tea towel in his face.

“There, there,” said the Mole soothingly. “Mr. Badger didn’t mean to frighten you.” He threw a warning glance at the Badger, who sat stolidly at the far end of the kitchen table, where he’d been banished by Mole. “Now, sit up, there’s a good boy, drink this, and then tell us everything you know.” He thrust a mug of hot milky tea into Sammy’s paw and made encouraging noises for him to drink up. After some fortifying sips, and with many a worried glance at Badger, Sammy was able to speak again.

“Humphrey and me made a plan, see,” he said. “It’s about Mr. Toad’s balloon, what come down in the middle of the Wild Wood.”

“Oh, dear!” exclaimed Mole, wishing the conversation would take any turn except this one.

Sammy nodded and said, “Yes sir, that’s ri’. And Humphrey and me was going to bring it back here and go halvsies in the reward that Mr. Toad put up. Split it down the middle, fair and square. But the balloon’s awful big and heavy, so we borrowed a wheelbarrow.” He added quickly, “We only borrowed it, you understand. We was going to put it back. But when we finally got to the balloon, there was the Chief Weasel and the Under-Stoat waiting for us.”

“Poor Humphrey,” exclaimed Rat. “He must have been terrified.”

“Not so bad, sir,” said Sammy. “They acted all friendly. Said we was their honored guests and all. Then they was asking him all sorts of questions about the balloon and could he make it fly. ’Course he can, I told ’em. My friend Humphrey knows all about balloons and inventions and such,” said Sammy proudly. “I told ’em that.”

Badger spoke, his voice deadly soft. “You didn’t. Did you?”

Sammy went all pale and wobbly.

“Badger,” murmured the Mole, “please let me handle this. Go on, Sammy. Don’t mind Mr. Badger.”

“S-so then they asked him what he might need to fix it. It’s the Chief Weasel’s birfday coming up, and he mentioned how he wanted to celebrate with a balloon ride. They was acting so nice and polite, and they insisted we stay for lunch, and such a terribly nice lunch it was. And then … and then … when it was time for us to be getting back…” He sniffled.

“Go on,” urged the Mole.

Sammy erupted in a sudden fountain of tears. “They said he had to stay! They said he had to fix it. He had to make it fly, or else they’d never let him go!”