Loamhedge by Brian Jacques Read Free Book Online Page A

“Wot are youse lot gawpin’ at, eh? Gimme some grog!”
    A female stoat called Crinktail, whose tail was shaped almost like a letter Z, passed Burrad the jug of nettle grog. Snatching it roughly, the bully sat down, taking long gulps of the fiery liquid.
    He watched Flinky like a hawk. “Crispy outside an’ soft inside, dat’s de way I likes fish.”
    The others averted their eyes; there was no doubt about who the leader of their gang was.
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    Crouched low in the reeds on the far bank, two creatures viewed the scene. One was an otter, the other a squirrel, both in their late middle seasons.
    The otter squinched his eyes, letting them rove over the gang. “Hmm, about twelve o’ them over there, I’d say.”
    The squirrel nibbled on a young reed. “There’s thirteen.”
    Her companion shrugged. “I won’t argue with ye, ’cos my eyes ain’t as good as they used t’be. I tell ye though, mate, that’s one sorry gang o’ vermin. Looks as if they got rocks in their skulls instead o’ brains.”
    The squirrel chuckled. “Aye, campin’ there without a single sentry posted, an’ a fire smokin’ away like a beacon. ’Tis a wonder their mothers let ’em out alone.”
    The otter nodded. “See ole lardbelly yonder, the big weasel? Leave him t’me, I enjoy takin’ bullies down a peg.”
    The squirrel commented drily, “Watch he don’t fall on ye, he’d flatten ye like a pancake. Are those fish ready yet?”
    Her companion sniffed the air. “I’d say so. Right then, are we ready t’go an’ pay ’em a visit?”
    The squirrel sighed. “Aye, layin’ here won’t get us any supper. You go in the front, an’ I’ll make me way around back.”
    The lean, aging otter grumbled. “It’s always me wot has t’go in the front. Why can’t I go in the back?”
    The squirrel cut left along the streambank, replying, “ ’Cos I’m the best tree climber. Give me time t’get ready, mate, don’t walk in too early. Good luck!”
    Tucking his rudder into the back of his belt, the otter draped his ragged cloak to conceal it. He bound a faded red bandanna low on his brow, disguising both ears and scrunching down over his eyes to make them look shortsighted.
    Picking up a polished hardwood staff, he splashed into the stream shallows, muttering to himself. “Huh, I’m gettin’ too old for this game!”
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    Little Redd was the youngest of the vermin gang. Small and runty, he was often the butt of their coarse jokes.
    Seeking about for firewood, Redd glanced sideways. He saw the bedraggled creature wading across the stream, and called to Burrad. “Aye aye, Chief, looks like we got company!”
    Burrad took his mouth from the grog jug. He cast a contemptuous glance at the hunched figure struggling toward the bankside. “Wot’n de name o’bludd is dat?”
    The otter sloshed ashore, calling in a quavery voice. “A good evenin’ to one an’ all. Seems I’m just in time for supper. Mmm . . . roasted roach, me favourite vittles!”
    Burrad’s cutlass was drawn and wavering a whisker’s breadth from the unwanted visitor’s nose. “Who are ye? Huhuhuh, or should I say, wot are ye?”
    The stranger avoided the blade neatly. Ducking under it, he stood at the vermin leader’s side, wrinkling his nose comically. “Wot am I, young feller? I’m a ferroat, o’ course!”
    Flinky looked up from the cooking fire. “A ferroat? Ah’ shure, an’ wot sort o’ beast is dat now?”
    The intruder replied airily. “Oh, just a cross twixt a ferret an’ a stoat. I was a small sickly babe, or so me ole mum’n’dad told me. That’s why I look like this.”
    Ignoring his fish-cooking task, Flinky continued. “An’