Free Loamhedge by Brian Jacques Page B

shuttup!”
    Flinky’s ditty put a little fresh life into the gang’s paws.
    Â 
    â€œFerrets are fine ould foragers,
    though frequently furtive an’ fey,
    stoats can sing sweetly fer seasons,
    so me sister used to say,
    but foxes are fine an’ ferocious,
    when faced with a fight or a fray,
    an’ rats remain rambunctious but only for a day!
    But wot about weasels, those wily ould weasels,
    they’re woefully wayward an’ wild,
    the ones they’ve whipped an’ walloped,
    will wail that weasels are vile,
    they’ve bullied an’ beaten an’ battered,
    they’ve tormented tortured an’ tripped,
    I’m sure any day their pore victims would say,
    steer clear o’ the weasel don’t get in his way,
    for of all the vermin ye’d care to recall,
    the weasel’s the wickedest wretch of all.
    An’ virtuous vermin will all agree,
    any weasel is worse than me!”
    Â 
    There were four weasels in the gang: Slipback; his mate, Juppa; and two taciturn brothers, Rogg and Floggo. All of them protested volubly at Flinky’s song.
    â€œThat ain’t right, foxes are worse’n weasels!”
    â€œYe sing dat again, an’ I’ll wallop ye alright!”
    Skrodd’s bad-tempered shout quickly silenced them. “Shut yore faces back there, or I’ll show ye ’ow ferocious foxes can be. Sing somethin’ else, Flinky, an’ don’t insult nobeast!”
    Dargle called out, “Aye, an’ be nice to foxes, they’re easy hurt!”
    Skrodd fixed the big rat with an icy glare. “Aye, an’ they can hurt rats easily, too!”
    Dargle stared fearlessly back at him. “Ye don’t scare me, fox. Burrad was slayed by mistake. Us rats don’t make mistakes when we fight!”
    Skrodd never answered. Turning away, he continued to march, but the challenge was out in the open now. The rest of the gang exchanged nods and winks—a fight to the death was not far off. Skrodd pulled Little Redd up to the front with him and allowed him to walk by his side. The small fox felt honoured; normally he would be left trailing at the back of the gang.
    Keeping his voice low, the bigger fox took on a friendly tone with the young one. “You stay by me, mate. Us foxes’ve got to stick together.”
    Little Redd had to glance around to make sure Skrodd was not talking to some other beast. He was more used to kicks and insults than to kind words.
    The big fox winked at him. “I been keepin’ an eye on ye, mate. Yore a smart little feller, not like this other lot!”
    Redd hated being called “little,” but he was quite pleased to know that Skrodd thought of him as smart. He returned the wink, speaking out of the side of his mouth.
    â€œI ain’t no fool, an’ I ain’t so little, either. I’m growin’ fast. One day they’ll call me Big Redd.”
    Skrodd got to the point. “Lissen, mate, I want ye t’do me a favour. Do ye think yore smart enough t’be useful to me?”
    Little Redd walked on tippaw, swelling his chest out. “Just tell me wot ye want doin’, mate!”
    Skrodd leaned close. “Keep an eye on the gang, especially Dargle. That rat’s gettin’ too big fer his boots. I want ye to watch my back, sort o’ be my second in command.”
    Redd hid his delight, replying gruffly, “I’ll do that, just watch me. Soon they’ll be callin’ me Big Redd. I won’t let ye down, mate!”
    Skrodd patted the small fox’s back. “Good! When I gets this gang sorted out, we’ll give ye a proper vermin name. Big Redd don’t mean nothin’. How does Badredd sound to ye, eh?”
    The young fox was squirming inside with joy. However, he kept his voice tough, in keeping with his new position.“Sounds great t’me, mate. Badredd—I like that! ’Tis a real killer’s name.