bushes. A fat boy with piggy eyes, who had been searching the garden, came creeping back through the shrubbery. He
was carrying a double handful of rotten vegetation.
Wilf pulled a face, turning away from the stench that emanated from the mess. "Phwaw! That doesn't half stink.
Where'd you get it, Tommo?"
The fat boy threw the stuff awkwardly. It landed short of the house, splattering on the front steps. He snickered
with glee, wiping his hands upon the grass. " 'Round the back there, Wilf. Winnie the Witch has a big compost heap
piled up against the wall!" He watched Wilf's tough, sun-reddened face for signs of approval.
The leader of the Grange Gang ignored his minion and gave orders to the others. "You lot get 'round to that
compost heap and fetch a load back here. We'll make the witch's house smell like a sewer before we're finished. Bring
as much as you can!"
Ben and his dog had been eavesdropping from the other side of the garden wall. Ned's hackles rose. "Witch
hunters persecuting some poor old lady! Grr, stupid ignorant louts, I can't abide them!"
Ben was of the same mind. "There's always bullies to pick on somebody who can't defend themselves, Ned.
Let's go and upset them a bit."
The Labrador shook his head. "If we're staying 'round here awhile, it won't do for you to invite trouble right off.
Leave this to me, pal!"
Ben cautioned his friend. "Don't go causing them any real damage, Ned. This isn't the Battle of Trafalgar, you
know."
Ned's face was the picture of injured doggy innocence. "Who, me? What possible harm could a gentle, ancient
pooch do to a gang of great, tough teenagers?"
Thinking back to past adventures, Ben was about to remind Ned of several incidents. But when he looked
around, the Labrador had vanished like a black shadow.
The gang were taking their time gathering garbage from the compost pile—rotting apples, carrot tops, withered
cabbages. Wilf's deputy, Regina, crouched impatiently behind the bushes. "What's the matter with 'em, Wilf, have
they gone asleep 'round there?"
Wilf was facing away from her, peering across the garden. "I'll kick that Tommo's behind if he doesn't move
himself!"
Something heavy hit Regina's back and knocked her flat. She turned over and found herself facing a giant mad
dog! It was black as night, showing gleaming white fangs as its lips twitched hungrily. Dark eyes glittering, fur
standing up on its spine, it stood snarling, ready to attack.
Regina managed to stammer. "W-W-Wilf, there's a d-d-dog!"
She need not have spoken, the beast already had Wilf's undivided attention. The boy took one pace back and fell
flat on his behind. The dog turned to face him, froth showing in its jaws.
"Grrrrr gurrrr, wooooof!"
The thunderous bark galvanized them both into instant motion. Scrambling upright, Regina ran for it, banging
into Wilf and smacking his head against the sandstone garden wall. "Owwooof! Yaaaaagh!"
Ned had the way out blocked. Wilf and Regina both fled toward the compost heap, which, being piled high
against the wall, offered the only quick way out of the garden. The big black Labrador pursued them, snarling and
growling viciously. The rest of the gang took one look at the savage hound and tried to make good their escape.
However, the soft, ripe compost couldn't bear their joint weight, and Wilf, Regina, and their cohorts found themselves
sinking into the odious squelching mire, shrieking and grabbing at one another. As he barked and bayed like a mad
wolf, Ned allowed a little slather of froth to wreathe his jaws, though inside he was giggling like a puppy. The fleeing
Grange members fell over one another, kicking and fighting to be first over the wall, faces, hands, elbows, and legs
covered with the stinking mass of decayed vegetation.
Standing outside, Ben saw the first few fling themselves from the walltop, thudding painfully onto the dusty
path. Before they could rise, more yowling muddy apparitions landed on them. It was utter bedlam! Ben pulled a
disgusted face at the smell hanging on the air, then he turned away, carelessly whistling an old sea shanty, his untidy
blond shock of hair bobbing as he entered the garden jauntily.
Ned came bounding up, his teeth bared in a huge doggy grin. "Now you know why my barking practice is
important. Did you hear me, Ben, I made more din than a pack of beagles. Pretty good going, I'd say!"
"Excellent! You did very well for an ancient hound. Bet they cover a mile or two before they stop running.
What's this? Look, Ned, there's an old lady coming out of the house."
Mrs. Winn had a walking stick in her hand in case of trouble, and she stopped several yards from them. Her
voice had a sharp note to it as she looked them over. "You don't look like one of those hooligans. What are you doing
here? Is that dog yours?"
Ned sat still and did some friendly dog-panting exercises, which he rated as important as barking practice.
Ben flicked the hair from his eyes with a swift nod and smiled disarmingly. "Afternoon, marm. We didn't mean
to trespass, but we thought that gang was annoying you. Not nice that, annoying folk."
Mrs. Winn peered closer at the strange, polite boy. His white canvas pants and crewneck sweater, together with
what appeared to be a cut-down naval jacket, gave him the look of a seaman, freshly arrived ashore.
Behind his smile she could sense calm; however, it was mainly the boy's blue eyes that caught her
attention—they seemed ageless, misty blue, like the summer horizon of a far sea.
She blinked, beckoning the two forward with her stick. "Does that dog attack cats?"
The Labrador shot out an indignant thought. "Attack cats, me? Is the old dear mad? I love the furry little things,
as long as they keep their claws to themselves. Huh, attack cats!"
Ben patted his dog fondly. "Ned's just fine with cats, marm. He's friendly, too. Give the lady your paw, Ned!"
Mrs. Winn held out her hand, and Ned dutifully presented a paw.
Obviously impressed, the old lady stroked Ned's sleek coat. "Oh, you're a good dog, Ned, good dog!"
Ned gave her the benefit of his soulful gaze. "Thank you, marm, and you're a nice lady, nice lady!"
She turned to the strange boy. "So, what's your name?"
"Ben, marm, just call me Ben."
She offered her hand. Ben shook it gently, and she winked at him. "My name's Winifred Winn, but you can call
me Winnie, and stop 'marming' me. You sound like my husband used to. 'Marm' this and 'marm' that. Well, Ben, I
suppose you like apple pie and lemonade, and I'll bet Ned wouldn't mind a dish of water and a beef bone with lots of
marrow and fat to it."
"Ooh, ooh! I could grow to love this old lady dearly!"
Ben bypassed the dog's compliment. "That'd be very nice, ma . . . er, Winnie, thank you."
She ushered them both inside. "It's the least I can do to thank you for driving those wretches away from the
house. The trouble they've caused me! And the whole village. But enough of that, you've probably got troubles of
your own. Come on, you two, we'll use the parlor. It's not often I have visitors."
14.
BEN SAT AT A SPINDLE-LEGGED COFFEE table in the parlor, tucking into a sizable wedge of Mrs. Winn's
apple pie, with fresh cream poured over it. There was a tall glass of homemade lemonade with it. Ned had retired to
the kitchen for his beef bone and water, where Mrs. Winn also gave him a piece of shortbread pastry. Horatio arched
his back and leapt onto a table, until the big dog passed him reassuring thoughts. The cat did not reply, but after a