Free King of the Vagabonds by Colin Dann

mouse was no pet; he knew something of that other world of the vagabonds. Perhaps he would have some ideas.
    ‘You look drenched,’ Tiptoe remarked to the tabby. ‘I’m surprised to see you out in this.’
    ‘There is a reason,’ Sammy replied. ‘I’ll tell you all about it. I need your advice. Have you finished eating?’
    ‘Of course not. I’ve never finished eating. Tee-hee. Butwait a bit I’ll come out.’ Tiptoe pushed his tiny body easily through the wire mesh. ‘We can’t stand here,’ he said. ‘What about the shed? Is it safe?’
    ‘Er – no,’ Sammy lied. ‘No, it isn’t. Stella’s on the prowl.’
    ‘Over here then,’ said Tiptoe, ducking into a flower-pot lying on its side. ‘You get under that plant.’
    ‘What’s the use?’ grumbled Sammy. ‘It’s as saturated as I am.’
    ‘Please yourself. What do you want to ask me?’
    Sammy collected his thoughts. Then he poured out the story of his new acquaintances the vagabonds, of Brute, of the bargain and how he had to prove himself. ‘Now I don’t know what I’m to do,’ he finished up. ‘These half-wild cats are going to come into my garden expecting to be fed. But how can they be with my mother and sister around – and Molly? And if they’re not fed what will they do? Oh Tiptoe, can you think how I’m to get out of all this?’
    The mouse was very still and quiet, something quite foreign to his nature. His mind was racing. He had realized at once the implications for himself and his relatives if the stray cats entered Mrs Lambert’s garden. His own comparatively quiet life would be disrupted in the worst possible way. These animals were not friendly pets; they were hunters. And he and his kind were the hunted – they would never know a moment’s peace again. He had told Sammy he liked adventure, and did enjoy the sort of mild risks he ran every time he entered Mrs Lambert’s cottage. But that was quite different from this. His life would become fraught with the most awful peril. He had to think of a way of helping Sammy that would, at the same time, help himself and the other mice.
    ‘Well, well,’ he said, ‘you certainly seem to have bitten off more than you can chew, don’t you? That’s what comes of going into Quartermile Field.’
    ‘What – what do you mean?’ Sammy cried. ‘I haven’t—’ He broke off as the whole thing suddenly became clear. Of course, it made sense. His mother’s warning. Molly’s explanation of it being out of bounds; the other sort of life. He knew now. He had been to Quartermile Field. Now he was caught up by its strange force, changed by it, excited by it yet repelled by it too. And he was bringing its influence with him back to his old peaceful, comfortable home.
    Tiptoe saw that he understood. ‘Too late for regrets,’ he said sharply. ‘We have to think how to outwit the – er – vagabonds.’ He pronounced the word with the utmost distaste.
    ‘There’s no time,’ Sammy moaned. ‘It’s to begin tomorrow night.’
    ‘You deserve to go hungry for the trouble you cause,’ Tiptoe told him. ‘But here’s what you must do. You must keep out of sight all day. When your mistress prepares your food you don’t show up for it. If I know her ways she’ll leave it around for a while in the hope of your coming to claim it. If the food’s outside there’s no problem, because the strange cat will eat it when it’s dark. Your mistress won’t know it’s not you.’ He paused, as a thought struck him: ‘But supposing she leaves the food inside?’
    ‘She only does that when it’s wet – like tonight,’ Sammy answered.
    ‘You’d better wish for dry weather then,’ Tiptoe said wryly. ‘And, whatever you do, don’t show yourself at all.’
    ‘I’ll roam about,’ said Sammy. ‘Perhaps I’ll stay in here. But what about the next night and the next. . . . They’re coming one by one.’
    ‘Same thing,’ Tiptoe replied. ‘Keep out of sight. As long as the food