Free King of the Vagabonds by Colin Dann Page B

would be a pleasant way of whiling away the time. He selected a good place where the grass was fairly short, lay down and dozed. From time to time he opened his eyes or changed his position, and sometimes Belinda wandered over to have a word. So the day passed.
    In the afternoon Sammy became aware that he was feeling frightfully hungry. There was no light titbit, no dish of milk on offer here. He would simply have to go without. He got up, stretched, yawned, and sauntered to a pool of rainwater for a few laps. He wondered what the vagabond cat would bring for him to eat that night.
    At last it was dusk and Sammy knew it was time to make tracks. He thought of Mrs Lambert preparing the animals’ meals and he felt so hungry he almost weakened. But he knew he had to carry this difficult arrangement through. He went as far as the garden with the chicken-run and settled down to wait in a secluded corner. Luckily the weather had remained dry.
    The cockerel was patrolling his territory as usual. Now and then he cast a glance at the young tabby who wascrouching nearby. Suddenly he stopped and screeched out: ‘Learnt to fly yet?’
    Sammy looked away disdainfully. He was in no mood for such nonsense. But the cockerel evidently thought he had hit upon rather a clever joke. He continued to call periodically in his piercing voice. ‘Learnt to fly yet, cat?’ And, as if providing himself with the answer he knew would not be forthcoming, he varied this with: ‘Cats can’t fly! They only climb.’ His cries were monotonous and irritating, and in the end, exasperated with the bird’s stupidity, Sammy moved to a quieter spot.
    The evening grew darker. Sammy tried to picture to himself what was happening in his own garden. Stella, Molly and Josephine would have eaten and probably prepared themselves for sleep. His mother and sister would have washed themselves meticulously as always. Molly, of course, did not bother with this. It was one of the first things Sammy had learnt about the differences between cats and dogs. Dogs did not wash themselves. They seemed to prefer a good scratch.
    He thought about the all-important plate of food – his food. It should still be standing close to the kitchen door, waiting to be emptied. But supposing it was not? Supposing his mistress considered it unwise to leave it there? After all, what was to stop Stella or Josephine eating it? No, Stella would not, he knew. She was set in her ways and only ate what she needed. And Josephine? She was not greedy. Sammy comforted himself with the thought. It should be all right. But then there was Molly. No, no, that was even more unlikely, that Molly should eat it. She took an age to eat her own meal.
    Sammy tried to relax, yet the temptation to check that the food was there was almost irresistible. He dreaded the outcome if it was not. Suddenly he tensed, hearing ascrabbling noise against the fence nearest to him. It must be the vagabond cat. He looked up. Yes, it was Scruff, perched on the fence top. Sammy was relieved it was not Brute.
    ‘Over here,’ Sammy hissed.
    Scruff jumped down, awkwardly because of his lameness. He was carrying something in his jaws. He came over and deposited two dead mice at Sammy’s feet. Sammy stared at them with misgiving. They looked extremely unappetizing and had a rank smell.
    ‘Here’s your rations,’ Scruff announced abruptly. ‘Now where’s mine?’
    ‘I’ll show you,’ Sammy muttered. ‘But is this all there is for me?’ He indicated the mice. ‘There’s not much meat on them.’
    ‘Did the best I could,’ Scruff replied gruffly. ‘What do you expect? You’re lucky to have two of ’em.’
    Sammy sighed. Famished as he was, he did not know if he could bring himself to taste them.
    ‘I’ll go and see if it’s all clear,’ he told the black cat.
    Scruff’s eyes had the intense gleam of hunger in them. He was half-starved. Sammy was sorry for him.
    ‘Be quick,’ said Scruff. ‘Much as I could do to