The Plague Dogs

Thursday the 25th November

PLAGUE DOGS DEVOUR SECOND VICTIM! APPALLING TRAGEDY OF YOUNG HILLWALKER BODY DESECRATED ON MOUNTAINSIDE

The Plague Dogs—escapees from the Government-owned Animal Research Station near Coniston—who for some time past have been terrorizing Lakeland with their ruthless sheep-killing and poultry raids on farms and domestic premises, have committed a culminating deed of horror at which the whole British public will shudder, wondering whether this country has been plunged back into the Dark Ages. If you are squeamish DO NOT READ ON!

Yesterday, in the early afternoon, the body of Geoffrey Westcott, 28, a bank employee of Windermere, Westmorland, was found at the foot of one of the steep gullies below the east face of the Dow Crag, near Coniston, famed mecca of Lakeland mountaineers. Mr. Westcott had evidently fallen to his death from the top of the gully, three hundred feet above, for on the grass not far from the summit of the Crag were found his binoculars and prismatic compass, customary equipment of the hillwalker.

THE BODY HAD BEEN TORN TO PIECES AND LARGELY DEVOURED BY CARNIVOROUS ANIMALS.

NEAR IT WAS FOUND A SEVERED DOG COLLAR MADE OF GREEN PLASTIC.

“Terrible Sight”

Mr. Westcott’s body was found by Dennis Williamson, a sheep farmer of Tongue House, Seathwaite, who was up the fell with his dogs looking for stray sheep. “It must have been about two o’clock in the afternoon and I was on Dow Crag,” Mr. Williamson told Digby Driver, the Orator’s reporter, “when I caught sight of something dark lying at the foot of one of the steep gullies running down from the summit area. The weather was a bit misty, but after I’d moved back and forth for some time to get the best sight of it I could and shouted without getting any reply, I felt sure that it must be someone who was either dead or unconscious. I went round by Goat’s Hause, got down to the bottom and after a bit I found the body. It was a terrible sight—worse than I can tell you. I left everything as it was and went back at once to inform the police. I’m glad it was their job and not mine. I shan’t forget it in a hurry, I can assure you.”

Revenge

Superintendent Malcolm, in charge of the case, told our reporter, “The discovery of a damaged Winchester .22 rifle in the gully, together with a severed dog-collar made of green plastic, suggested to us at once that the dead man must have been attempting to shoot one of the so-called Plague Dogs from the top of the gully when he fell to his death and his body became their prey.”

Inquiries subsequently made of his landlady, Mrs. Rose Green of Windermere, have corroborated that Mr. Westcott had told her that he intended to track down and shoot the dogs in revenge for their attack upon his car two days previously, after he had stopped for a few minutes on a lonely part of the Grasmere-Keswick road. Mr. Westcott was particularly upset that the dogs should have terrified Mrs. Green and torn her week’s shopping of meat and groceries out of the car in order to devour it.

“Practical—Determined”

Handsome, middle-aged Mrs. Green, interviewed by the Orator yesterday evening, described Mr. Westcott as a practical and very determined young man, and an experienced and capable hillwalker. “He told me his mind was made up to find and kill those terrible dogs,” she said. “I only wish he had. This terrible tragedy has upset me deeply, especially as I feel that in a way Geoffrey was doing what he did for my sake. He was terribly upset about the dogs taking the groceries and also about the terrible way they had spoilt his car. I shall miss him terribly. We were great friends. He was almost like a son.”

No Comment

Senior officers at Animal Research, Coniston, refused to comment last night. Dr. James Boycott, a spokesman, said, “This is a very serious matter and neither we nor anyone else ought to try to anticipate the proper investigational procedures. We are, of course, ready to give evidence to the Coroner if he requires it and we are in close touch with the Secretary of State. I cannot pronounce on whether or not there will be a Government inquiry—that is for Ministers to say. We are as much appalled as other members of the public.” (Leading Article, page 10.)

“Yes, well,” said Digby Driver, happily pronging another forkful of egg and bacon and lifting the Orator from its place against the coffee-pot in order to turn over the front page, “by all means let’s have a look at page 10. Good grief, black, what on earth?—”

“And they damn’ well have, too,” said Driver admiringly. “Wonder whose jolly little idea that was? Very snazzy, very snazzy.”

“Excuse me, how long will you be wanting the table, Mr. Driver, sir?” asked the waitress. “Only breakfast goes off at ten o’clock and I’m just clearing up.”

“Not another minute, Daisy,” answered Driver happily, “not half a mo. Everything in the garden is distinctly tickety-boo. Yeah, thanks, clear away the day bree by all means. I wonder,” said Mr. Driver to himself, strolling out of the breakfast room, “I wonder whether old Simpson Aggo means to be at the debate in the House tonight? Hogpenny’ll have been helping to brief Bugwash, that’s for sure. I’ll put a call through and see whether someone can ring me from Bugwash’s room in the House as soon as the debate’s over. That Boycott bloke’s face! Ha ha ha ha ha HA! A flea!”

Wednesday the 24th November

It was noon of the day after the death of the tod. Rain had begun to fall before dawn and continued during most of the morning, so that now the becks were running even more strongly. A dog’s ears could catch plainly the minute, innumerable oozings and bubblings of the peat, gently exuding like a huge sponge, rilling and trickling downward. There was a faint, clean smell from the broken half-circle of yellow foam which had formed at the infall to Goat’s Water. Mist was still lying, but only upon the peaks, where it moved and eddied, disclosing now the summit of the Old Man, now Brim Fell or the conical top of Dow Crag. The wind was freshening and the clouds breaking to disclose blue sky.

“Rowf, we can’t stay here. Rowf?”

“Why not? It’s lonely enough, isn’t it? There’s shelter from the rain, too.”

“They’re bound to come and find the man, Rowf. They’ll see us.”

“I don’t care. He hurt my neck. It still hurts.”

Snitter struggled upwards through the baying of the hounds and the terrified, staring eyes of the tod.

“You don’t—you don’t understand, Rowf! The men will never rest now, never, until they’ve killed us; not after this. They’ll come, any number of them. They’ll have horns and red coats to stop us running fast enough. They’ll pull us down and hurt us dreadfully-like the tod.”

“Because of the man? We were starving. They can’t—”

“Yes, they can, Rowf! I know more about men than you do. They will!”

“I bet they’d do it if they were starving. Probably have.”

“They won’t see it like that. Rowf, we’re in the worst danger ever—I can hear it barking, coming closer—great, black-and-white lorries with drooping ears and long tails. We must go. If the tod were here, he’d tell you—”

“You say he’s dead?”

“I told you, Rowf, I told you how they killed him—only I forgot to tell you what he said about you. He said—he said—oh, I’ll remember it in a moment—”

Rowf got up stiffly and yawned, pink tongue steaming over black, blood-streaked lips.

“No one’d speak any good of me—least of all the tod. If men come here trying to hurt me, I’ll tear a few of them up before I’m done. I hate them all! Well, where are we to go, Snitter?”

“Up there into the mist, for a start. Listen, Rowf; the poor tod said I was to tell you—only I can’t think—it was all so dreadful—”

“The mist’s breaking up.”

“Never mind. As long as we’re not found here.”

That afternoon, while Digby Driver made his way to Lawson Park and back again, while first the police and then the entire country learned aghast of what had happened under Dow Crag, Snitter and Rowf wandered, with many halts, over the Coniston range. For much of the time Snitter was confused, talking of the tod, of his dead master and of a girl who drove a car full of strange animals. As darkness was falling they descended the southern side of the Grey Friar and found themselves, quite by chance, on the green platform outside the old coppermine shaft. Snitter did not recognize it but Rowf, supposing that he must have led them there on purpose, at once went in; and here, among old, half-vanished smells of sheep’s bones and the tod, they spent that night.

Thursday the 25th November

“Ah’ll tell thee, Bob,” said Dennis, “it were worst bluidy thing as Ah’ve ever seen. An’ if woon more newspaper chap cooms to’t door assking questions, Ah’ll belt the bluidy arse off him. Ah will thet.”

Robert nodded in silence.

“Happen those could have made good dogs, Dennis, tha knaws,” he remarked after a little. “Good, workin’ dogs. Ay, they could.”

“Waste o’ dogs? Ay—waste o’ chap an’ all. That were bank chap from Windermere, tha knaws.”

Robert gazed meditatively down the cowshed, where the cows breathed and intermittently blew, tossed their heads and stamped in the warm half-dark. Fly, one of his own dogs, looked up from the floor and, perceiving that its master was still relaxed, returned its head to its front paws.

“Ah’ll tell thee soomthing, Dennis,” said Robert at length. “Yon newspaper chap, yon Driver. When this dogs’ business started oop, wi’ thy yows goin’ an’ that, Ah told thee as he’d be real ‘andy fella, put paid to trooble an’ all.”

“Ay, tha did.”

“Well, Ah were bluidy wrong, an’ that’s all there is to it, owd lad. He’s doon joost nowt, ‘as ‘e? Joost maakin’ newspaper stories an’ keepin’ pot on’t boil, like, to sell paper. He’s made more trouble for us, not less.”

“Ay, an’ Ah doan’t reckon as he ever meant t’ave dogs caught at all. Longer they went on, better he were pleased, tha knaws.”

“Anoother bluidy story, ay. An’ old ‘Any Tyson says they’re no more carryin’ plague than he is. Never read sooch a looäd o’ roobbish in all ‘is life, he said. What it cooms to, yon Driver’s oop ’ere maakin’ mooney out of us coontry johnnies, that’s about it, old boöy.”

“Well, he’ll make no more out of me, Bob, tha knaws, for Ah wayn’t oppen door to him agaain, nor noon o’t’ basstards.”

“Ay, but Ah were thinkin’, happen theer’s worse to’t than that, Dennis. If he’d doon what he should ‘ave doon, yon Windermere chap wouldn’t have needed to be going out affter dogs at all. That could all ‘ave bin settled an’ doon with.”

“Happen they could put green collar on him, like, an’ boil his arse for experiment,” said Dennis bitterly. “He’d be soom bluidy use then, any rooäd.”

He got up off the stone bench. “Well, Ah’m away.”

“Art tha goin’ into Broughton?”

“Nay, Ah’m off t’Oolverston, an’ bide theer while newspaper chaps are gone. They can talk to Gwen if they like, an’ she’ll tell them joomp int’ beck, damn’ sight sharper than Ah can an’ all.”

Five cars went by Hall Dunnerdale, nose to tail. Robert and Dennis watched them pass before crossing the road to the parked van.

“There’ll be a few more o’ those an’ all, now,” said Robert.

“Folk starin’ about for they don’t know what. Y’can thank yon Driver for that as weel.”

5:20 p.m.

MR. BERNARD BUGWASH (Lakeland Central): Mr, Speaker, in the course of this debate, hon. Members on this side of the House have already drawn attention very thoroughly, in general terms, to the reckless extravagance which throughout the past three years has characterized the Government in the field of so-called research work and research establishments, right across the board. The plain truth is that public money has been frittered away on all manner of nonsense. I would not be surprised to learn that alchemists had been given some of it to discover the philosopher’s stone. (Laughter.) It is no laughing matter.

I was originally going to say that it has fallen to me to illustrate this incompetence by telling the House about a particular instance. However, as matters now stand, the House hardly needs further telling. The past two days have raised the matter to a level where no one throughout the country is unaware of it. Therefore I need only remind the House briefly of the tragic facts, to most hon. Members already only too dreadfully familiar.

It is a sinister reflection that if those hon. Members whom I observe at this moment leaving the Chamber were on their way to homes in my constituency, they would be running the risk of attack by savage animals—yes, Mr. Speaker, savage animals—and, upon arrival at those homes, the further risk of having their property destroyed or damaged during the night. If they were farmers, they might wake to find fowls or sheep removed or killed. This, one might have thought, would be bad enough. But that is not the worst. They would also have to endure the risk of infection by a terrible disease, none other than bubonic plague. And perhaps worst of all, they would be living day in and day out in the knowledge that no less than two local people, strong, healthy men in the prime of their lives, had had those lives brought to tragic ends by what are in effect wild beasts. I do not intend here to sicken the House with the details of the second of those deaths, which we have all seen reported in this morning’s newspapers. I merely say, “Who would have imagined that these things would be allowed to take place in this country today?”

How did they come about and at whose door should the responsibility be laid? It rests squarely on the shoulders of the Government and, as I intend to show, the fear and tragedy which my constituents are presently undergoing are the logical—not the fortuitous, Mr. Speaker, but the logical—outcome of policies—

The Parliamentary Secretary of the Department of the Environment (MR. BASIL FORBES) rose—

MR. BUGWASH: I am sorry, but I cannot give way to the hon. Member at this point. The time is coming soon enough when these charges must be answered, but since there can be no satisfactory answer there is no reason why the hon. Member should be in a hurry to admit it. What has happened now is the logical outcome of policies dating back several years, to a piece of the stupidest doctrinaire steam-rollering which has ever been thrust upon this long-suffering nation—and that is saying a lot.

It is now something like five years since the Government, despite strenuous and well-justified opposition, gave approval to the construction of the buildings known as Animal Research, Scientific and Experimental, at Lawson Park, east of Coniston Water, one of the most beautiful places in England. And how did this piece of nonsense come to be put into effect? I will tell you how. By disregarding the clearly expressed views both of local people and of their elected representatives.

One morning the unsuspecting inhabitants of this national park area, whose very well-founded misgivings were set aside by the Secretary of State in his so-called wisdom, wake up and find that a pair of savage dogs have been allowed to escape. The dogs begin killing sheep on the fells, taking poultry from farms and doing all manner of damage. The station says nothing and does nothing. I need not give many details, for they are known to hon. Members from the daily press, but I must give some. At length a public-spirited businessman undertakes the organization of a hunt by local farmers. He is found shot dead and it is more than suspected that one of these dogs played a crucial part in the accident. Whether it did or not, surely the station, if they had had the least sense of responsibility, would have uttered something at this juncture? They did not. They did nothing. They said nothing until several days later, and then all they said was that two dogs had escaped. On the very same day it transpired, and was reported in the press, that those dogs were probably infected with bubonic plague. And both the station and its parent Department still did nothing, nothing at all.

One might have thought that by now enough had been allowed to go wrong to galvanize anybody into action. But there was worse to come. You will be only too well aware, Mr. Speaker, of the tragedy reported in the press this morning, which has deeply shocked the entire country. That is what this dreadful story of neglect and criminal irresponsibility has brought us to. These are the sort of people who are entrusted with research programmes and with spending money on them. Ostriches—worse. A decent ostrich would have kicked someone by now.

I am not alone in feeling that there are several questions to which the rt. hon. Gentleman opposite should give us the Government’s answers tonight. Public anxiety is grave, and it is his plain duty to allay it if he can.

CAPTAIN ALISTAIR MORTON-HARDSHAW (Keswick): Like the hon. and learned Member for Lakeland Central, I am anxious to hear what assurances my rt. hon. Friend has to give us on this matter. I feel strongly that there is one aspect which has received insufficient attention. We have learned that these dogs may have become infected, during their escape, with bubonic plague. I find it disturbing that this kind of work should be carried out at a place where risk to the public is involved. Surely work on something like bubonic plague should be carried out in complete isolation, in an underground bunker or something like that. It is disturbing that the station are apparently unable to deny that there is a possibility, however small, that these dogs are infected. While I do not feel able to associate myself with every one of the sweeping and in certain respects not very penetrating criticisms made by the hon. Member for Lakeland Central–

MR. BUGWASH: You ought to.

CAPTAIN MORTON-HARDSHAW: The hon. and learned Member says that I

ought to. With respect, I cannot agree with him. I wish—

MR. BUGWASH: Because you are deliberately blind to what is–

CAPTAIN MORTON-HARDSHAW: At any rate I am not a lackey of the gutter press.

MR. BUGWASH: Who is the hon. and gallant Member suggesting is a lackey of the gutter press? Would the hon. and gallant Member care to say plainly who he suggests is a lackey of the gutter press?

CAPTAIN MORTON-HARDSHAW: I am afraid the hon. and learned Member for Lakeland Central is going to burst a blood vessel in a moment. If the cap fits he can wear it.

MR. SPEAKER: I am afraid the cap will not fit. That was an unparliamentary expression. The hon. and gallant Member for Keswick must withdraw it. It is desirable to keep the temper of the House down, if possible.

CAPTAIN MORTON-HARDSHAW: Is it only the hon. and learned Member with the brain of a fox and the manners of a dog who is entitled to your protection, Mr. Speaker? Am I not to be given any protection—

HON. MEMBERS: Withdraw!

CAPTAIN MORTON-HARDSHAW: It is often said by Mr. Speaker that he is conveniently deaf.

SEVERAL HON. MEMBERS rose—

MR. SPEAKER: Order. The hon. and gallant Gentleman is entitled to complete his speech. But he must withdraw that expression.

MR. MICHAEL HAND (Oban): On a point of order, Mr. Speaker. If we are considering manners and the pot is calling the kettle black–

MR. SPEAKER: That is not a point of order.

HON. MEMBERS: It is!

MR. SPEAKER: No, it is not. I do not take my orders from back benchers. I have said that the hon. and gallant Gentleman must withdraw, and no doubt he is waiting to do so.

CAPTAIN MORTON-HARDSHAW: I withdraw the words that I used and I apologize to every lackey of the gutter press in this country for bringing him down to the level of the people who sit on the opposite side of the House.

MR. SPEAKER: I am obliged.

MR. BUGWASH: I accept the hon. and gallant Gentleman’s withdrawal, but not his apology. Our sympathy should perhaps go out to the Secretary of State for the company he keeps today.

CAPTAIN MORTON-HARDSHAW: I will conclude by simply saying what I have been prevented from saying for the last five minutes. I sincerely hope that my rt. hon. Friend will be able to include in his reply some undertaking about ensuring the safety of the public when carrying out work on dangerous things of this nature which ought not to be done in places where there is the minutest risk of infection getting out. I hope my rt. hon. Friend will have something to tell us about that.

Up in the Strangers’ Gallery, Mr. Anthony Hogpenny turned to Mr. Desmond Simpson.

“Let’s go out and have a couple across the way, shall we? They’ll be happy for at least half an hour yet. Then we can come back and hear whatever Hot Bottle Bill can find to tell them. One thing’s certain, he’ll have to concede something—quite a lot, I’d say, considering that he’s under fire from his own back-benchers as well as from the Opposition. Should be an interesting spectacle.”

When they returned, they found that the debate had evidently folded rather more quickly than Mr. Hogpenny had expected, for Hot Bottle Bill was already on his feet and had apparently been on them for some little time.

—I have already stressed to the House that I take a most serious view of the public anxiety brought about by the escape of these dogs. Let me say at once that I have every confidence in the people who run Animal Research. They are extremely good at their job.

MR. HAND: What is it?

MR. HARBOTTLE: Their job is scientific research by means of experiments upon animals, and I repeat, they are very good at it. I am satisfied that, in saying nothing initially about the dogs’ escape, their aim was to avoid giving rise to public anxiety in a manner which might have proved alarmist and worse in its effect than silence. I want to assure the House that for all practical purposes there is no risk whatever of bubonic plague. That has been made far too much of in certain quarters and by certain people. There is a possible chance in ten thousand—in fifty thousand—that the dogs might have encountered an infected flea, and that is why the station, quite rigntly, would not say that such a thing was out of the question. I repeat, they are men of science, not public relations officers.

MR. GULPIN MCGURK (Adlestrop) rose—

MR. HARBOTTLE: I am sorry, Mr. Speaker, but what I have to say is of the greatest importance and I cannot give way now.

The hon. and learned Member for Lakeland Central spoke of public expenditure at Lawson Park. A balance sheet for the past three years will be laid on the Table of the House within the next two days. I do not accept for one moment that there has been any excessive expenditure. I am sure that there has not and the balance sheet will prove it—

MR. BUGWASH rose—

MR. HARBOTTLE: I must continue, Mr. Speaker. I am sorry. (Interruption.) This sort of thing only wastes time—

MR. BUGWASH: Better than wasting money.

MR. HARBOTTLE: I intend personally to examine the research programmes, staffing and costs at Lawson Park for the current year and next year, and see whether economies cannot be made. I will let the House know my conclusions.

“Christ!” muttered Mr. Hogpenny to Mr. Simpson.

I come finally to the matter of the distressing tragedy which occurred on the Dow Crag two days ago. It would be pointless for me or anyone to try to allot blame for a thing of this kind. The point is, what is going to be done and how quick and effective will it be? What I have to tell the House is that if time has been lost, we are making up for it now. With the co-operation of my right hon. Friend the Secretary of State for Defence–

MISS JOYCE O’FARRELL (Abergavenny): Where is he?

MR. HARBOTTLE: The hon. Lady asks where he is. That is irrelevant. The point is that he has already made a decisive contribution to this problem. Two companies of the 3rd Battalion, the Parachute Regiment, are at this moment on their way to the Lake District. Tomorrow they will begin an intensive search of the most likely areas and they will continue until the dogs are found and killed, which I hope will be quickly. Also taking part in the search will be two Royal Naval helicopters, which will be directly in touch with the ground force by radio.

There is one more thing I want to say. It is important and I hope it will be widely reported. Members of the public who have no real business there positively must keep out of the area. Anything in the nature of rubber-necking, taking photographs, sight-seeing, and so on would certainly be a hindrance to the soldiers and could also be dangerous to the sight-seers themselves. We are not going to close the roads. That might create serious difficulties for doctors, veterinary surgeons, farmers and others. We rely on people’s good sense to stay away.

I myself am going to the area tomorow. I shall be in personal touch with those conducting the hunt and it will not be called off until it is successful.

MR. BUGWASH: I am sure I am expressing the feelings of the entire House in thanking the Secretary of State for his speech and for the action he is initiating in various different spheres. It is a case of better late than never. We on this side of the House welcome his co-operation.

“Hell’s bells!” said Mr. Hogpenny, as he and Mr. Simpson left the Strangers’ Gallery en route for Mr. Bugwash’s room in the House, “talk about grovelling! Harbottle makes it too easy. A penny a kick and twopence a brick and sewage was threepence a bucket, eh?”

“He knows what he’s doing, though,” said Mr. Simpson. “Don’t you see, the implicit line is that his chaps have clanged, he’s too decent to say so and now he’s Honest Joe acting like lightning to clean up the mess that wasn’t brought to his notice earlier. A head will roll, as sure as fate, you mark my words. Give it forty-eight hours.”

“Well, the Plague Dogs racket has certainly proved very successful from the Orator’s point of view, all things considered,” said Mr. Hogpenny. “In fact, far better than I expected. How to make good use of our four-footed friends. A Cabinet Minister gravely embarrassed, some sort of junior resignation, if you’re right, and circulation up more than half a million. Your Driver fellow has done very well. However, I think we need to be looking for a really resounding dénouement of some kind now. Fearsome dogs shot by gallant lads’ll be about the size of it, I suppose. But I hope Driver may be able to contrive some unexpected conclusion that pays us and pleases the public.”

“Don’t worry,” replied Mr. Simpson. “If anyone can, he will.”

“Snitter! Wake up, blast you! Wake up, Snitter!”

Snitter was lying asleep on the shale. He woke, rolled over, turned towards the patch of daylight at the distant opening and sniffed the flow of air. It was late morning, cloudy but without rain.

Rowf ran a few yards, stopped and turned his head.

“Come and look. Take care, though—keep well out of sight. You’ll see why.”

When they were about fifteen or twenty feet from the mouth of the cavern, Snitter gave a yap of surprise and flung himself down on the stones.

“Oh my dam! How long—how long have all those people been up there, Rowf? What a—”

“I don’t know. I only looked out myself just now. We’ve never seen anything like that, have we? What are they all doing and what do you think it means?”

“Such a lot of them!”

A mile away, on the opposite side of the Moss, the ridge of the Dow Crag was covered with human figures, black against the sky. Some were standing still, while others could be seen moving along the undulant top, trailing down towards Goat’s Hause and thence out of sight beyond the brow. Rowf growled.

“I can hear them talking—can you?”

“Yes—and smell them—clothes, leather, tobacco. I was afraid yesterday—I said, didn’t I?—I was afraid they’d come: but I didn’t think there’d be all those.”

“Do you think they’re looking for us? They’re not farmers, are they?”

“No. They look more like the sort of people I remember my master talking to, in the old days. There are women up there, as well as men. They all seem to be peering over the edge, look, and some of them are going down to where—to where the man was.”

“I’m hungry,” said Rowf.

“So am I; but we can’t risk going out now. We’ll have to wait-wait—what was I saying? The tod said—everything’s so confused—the garden—oh, yes, we’ll have to wait till—till it’s dark. They mustn’t see us, not a mouse.”

“Starve, then,” said Rowf, scratching his staring ribs against the rock wall. “We’ve done that often enough. Getting easy, isn’t it?”

A drizzle began to fall from the clouds drifting up Dunnerdale from the west. In half an hour mist had blotted out the mile of moss and fell lying between the sight-seers on the Dow Crag and the watchers in the cavern. Rowf stretched, and shook himself.

“Hope they get wet. It might be worth going across there tonight, when they’ve gone. A crowd of people like that’s sure to have left some bits of bread or something. But we’ll have to take care. There might be men still watching. They hate us, don’t they? You said so.”

Snitter, staring into the blown rain, made no immediate answer. At last he said slowly, “I—know. And yet—I don’t understand. My—my master’s out there somewhere.”

“What on earth d’you mean? Talk sense, Snitter! Your master’s dead—you told me so. How can he be out there?”

“I don’t know. The mist blows about, doesn’t it? I’m so tired of it. I’m tired of being a wild animal, Rowf.”

Snitter ran outside, lapped from a shallow puddle in the turf and sat upon his hind legs, begging.

“The gully in the shed floor—the lady with the gloves. It’s all different since the second man died, and the poor tod. I must have dreamt the tod, because I saw him—after he’d gone—they tore him to pieces. It’s the mist that makes everything so confused. And the tod said something very important, Rowf, that I was to tell you, but I’ve forgotten—”

“That’s a change,” said Rowf brutally. “Listen! Isn’t that the sound of a man’s boots? No, somewhere over there. We’d better get a good long way back inside. This is no good, is it? We shan’t be able to go on like this—not for long.”

“We’re going to be inundated with this sort of thing and all manner of other rubbish, I dare say,” said Dr. Boycott, endorsing a direction at the foot of the letter and throwing it into his OUT tray. “I don’t know why that should have come here. It should have gone straight to Admin., and they’re welcome to it.”

“I’ve had two or three loopy phone calls this morning already,” said Mr. Powell. “We really need someone put on to deal with that sort of thing until public interest dies down a bit. It’s such a fearful interruption to work, you know.”

“I’ll mention it to the Director,” replied Dr. Boycott, “but I can tell you now that we’re not going to get anyone extra just at the moment. You know the Secretary of State’s called for an urgent memorandum listing practicable reductions and economies throughout the station—apparently he intends to give some sort of undertaking in his speech in the debate tonight. There’ll probably be drastic changes both in work and staff. Goodner’ll be moving, almost certainly, but that’s very much for your private ear just at the moment.”

“I see,” said Mr. Powell. “Anyway, chief, can you countersign this report on the kittens experiment—the lung-worm infections? That was what I really came in for. I’m afraid none of the experimental forms of treatment were successful; and most of the subjects died, as you’ll notice.”

“Oh dear,” said Dr. Boycott, reading. “What a shame! ‘Death of almost entire group’—h’m—’preceded by’—h’m, h’m—’excessive salivation, impairment of locomotion and vision, muscular twitchings, panting, respiratory distress, convulsions’—how disappointing! Are the experimental treatments concluded now?”

“‘Fraid so, for the time being. They’ve all been given a very fair trial. Davies says it would be pointless to continue without further consultation with Glasgow, and anyway we haven’t any kittens left, not until next month. That’s why I’ve completed a report at this stage.”

“I see,” said Dr. Boycott. “Well, it can’t be helped. Anyway, more painful matters seem to be looming all round just at the moment. What about the monkey, by the way? How long has it done now?”

“Forty and a half days,” replied Mr. Powell. “I believe it’s going to die. I wish—I wish to God—”

“That’s very unlikely,” interrupted Dr. Boycott swiftly, “if it’s been fed and watered in accordance with the schedule. But obviously it’s the worse for wear. You must expect that. It’s a social deprivation experiment, after all.”

“Rowf! Rowf—the rhododendrons, can you smell them?”

Amid the stirrings of glabrous leaves and the glitter and hum of summer insects, Snitter recognized with excitement the old, familiar spot where his body had made a hollow in the peaty soil. Rowf, awake instantly, bristled, sniffing and peering in bewilderment and darkness.

“What? What do you mean?”

“That damned cat’s been here again, too. I’ll cat it! I’ll chew its tail off, you see if I don’t!”

“Snitter, lie down! Go to sleep.”

“I’m going to, don’t worry. When the sun gets round just a bit more it strikes right in here, do you see, between those two branches? I tell you, it’s the most comfortable place in the whole garden. I’m glad you’re here too, Rowf: you’ll like my master; he’s a really good sort.”

Snitter wriggled carefully along the shale, flattening his back to squeeze under one of the stouter branches.

“The leaves flash in your eyes, don’t they, when they catch the light? Used to make me jump now and then, until I got used to it.”

And now it really did seem to Rowf that they were both surrounded by a grove of dark-green leaves, cernuous on their short, tough stems; by brown, fibrous, peeling branches and great speckle-throated, rosy blooms. Yet all these he perceived as figmentary and as it were in motion, present while forever slipping away in the edge of the nose and the tail of the eye, superimposed upon the shale and the rock walls, covering them as a shallow, flowing stream its bed; or still more insubstantially, as smoke from a bonfire drifts over the trees and bushes of a garden. His hearing, too—or so it seemed—had become clouded; nevertheless a faint, sharp call, like an audible recollection of a human cry rather than the sound itself, came to his ears from a distance and he jumped up, turning towards the cave-mouth, where moonlight and stars showed faintly luminescent beyond and outside the ghostly den of foliage.

“That’s only the paraffin man,” said Snitter, settling himself comfortably. “He usually comes round about now. Can’t you smell him and his van? Fairly stinks the place out, doesn’t it?”

A spectral odour of paraffin stole through the vault, indistinct yet undeniably present, like the twinking of bats at twilight. Rowf trembled where he crouched. His very senses seemed outside his own body. He heard a car pass by, over the curve of the world and down the other side. Above him an invisible flock of starlings flew cackling on their evening way, an impalpable bluebottle settled on his ear, and always the long, oval, glittering leaves nodded and rustled about him.

“Here he comes,” whispered Snitter gaily, “out of the door, look, old brown coat, scarf and all. On his way to poke some paper into the red box, you bet! Look—no, through here—see him? Come on, let’s give him a surprise!”

But now Rowf could perceive nothing. There was only the glimmer of the rocky wall and something like a bank of mist blowing nearer and nearer across a desolate, windy field.

“Here he comes!” said Snitter again. “Can’t see him now for the bushes, but you can hear him, can’t you? He’ll go right past us in a moment.”

Rowf turned his head, trying to catch a glimpse of the approaching footsteps crunching on the gravel with a sound faint as that of blown leaves.

“O tallywack and tandem!” whispered Snitter, quivering with mischievous excitement. “Here we go! You can jump the gate all right, can’t you? It’s not a high one, you know. Don’t be nervous—he always loves a joke.”

The mist enveloped Rowf completely. He lay tense in a directionless, scentless obscurity where there was neither up nor down, a void in which a raindrop would become lost on its way from clouds to earth. He opened his mouth, but no sound came forth to break the windless silence.

Suddenly Snitter’s body struck violently against his own. He fell to one side and found himself struggling and kicking on the floor of the cavern.

“Rowf! Oh Rowf, it’s the huntsman, the huntsman with his red coat! They’ve torn the poor tod to pieces! They’re coming! They’re coming!”

As the spare, bent-kneed huntsman came panting through the rhododendrons, knife in hand, Snitter tried to burrow under Rowf’s flank and then, in frenzy, bit him in the haunch; a moment after, he fled yelping out of the cave, away from the smoke-breathed, shadowy hounds bounding into it through the cleft in his head. By the time that Rowf, cursing and bleeding, had picked himself up and followed him outside, he had already reached the upper end of the tarn.

When sheer exhaustion brought him to a halt at last by the beck above Long House Farm, he did not at first recognize Rowf, turning on him, as he came up, with bared teeth and white, staring eyes. Rowf, still half-stupefied by the illusion which he had shared and by his two-mile pursuit of Snitter down the hillside, dropped, panting, on the other side of the beck, and after a time Snitter came hesitantly across to him, sniffing him over like a stranger, but saying nothing. Little by little—as though his sight were clearing—he returned to the surrounding realities of night, of the fell, the chattering beck, the clouds and starlight; and an hour later the two got up and wandered away together, refugees without destination or purpose, except never to return to the cavern.

Thus it was that when, on the following afternoon, a section of No. 7 Platoon, B Company, 3rd Battalion, the Parachute Regiment, patrolling the southern and eastern faces of the Grey Friar, entered and searched the old coppermine shaft, they found no more than either No. 9 Platoon, patrolling the Goat’s Water area, or No. 10 Platoon, searching from Walna Scar across to the fellside north of Dow Crag. The mysterious Plague Dogs had vanished once again.

Friday the 26th November

In the darkness of the early small-hours, Digby Driver lay sleeping the sleep of the unjust, his dreams flickering upwards from the incongruously honest, but cryptic and therefore unheeded, caves of the unconscious like marsh-gas rising through the ooze of a bog. Images and even phrases capered within his sleeping skull like lambent, phosphorescent corkscrews. Miss Mandy Pryce-Morgan—an animal given to him (or to somebody) for his pleasure—clad in a gown of transparent airline tickets and a bullfighter’s red cape, was reading to him from a silver-mounted copy of the London Orator.

“POLITICIAN CHEWS WRITER’S MEMORY ON FELL,” read Miss Pryce-Morgan. “SCUBA DIVERS PROBE TARN IN BID TO ESTABLISH DOGS’ INNOCENCE.”

“Poet Wordsworth, celebrated Lakeland sheep, got a shock yesterday.” She paused.

“The reason?” moaned Digby Driver automatically, tossing and turning where he lay.

“He found one of his odes had been chewed up by Mr. Basil Forbes, the Parliamentary Secretary. Mr. Forbes, in an exclusive press statement to the Orator, said, ‘I ode him nothing. Anyone alleging otherwise is up the Walpole. In any event, Mrs. Ann Moss has now sold herself to Animal Research for experimental purposes, and a dog has bitten the Secretary of State. Cet animal est très méchant. Quand on l’attaque, il se défend:

It is learned from an official source in Gainesville, Florida, that Mr. Greg Shark, the well-known scuba-diver, is to descend into the day before yesterday in an attempt to discover the Plague Dogs’ whereabouts. Mr. Shark, interviewed at a depth of two atmospheres in fresh water—

“That rings a bell,” muttered Driver, half-awake. “Rings a bell. I can almost—almost hear—” He opened his eyes and sat up sharply. A bell was ringing—a real bell. A moment more and his awakened faculties, closing over the dream like mud over a flung stone, had recognized it as the telephone. He got out of bed and picked up the receiver.

“Driver Orator.”

“It’s Quilliam, Kevin.”

“Who?”

“Quilliam—Skillicorn. Got it? Come on, dear boy, come on! You were asleep, I suppose?” (Mr. Skillicorn did not, of course, run to an apology.)

“Of course I—yeah—yeah, I was actually. Nice to hear you, Quilliam. Where are you, in the office?”

“No, I’m down at Sir Ivor’s. Tony Hogpenny’s here too. We’ve been having a talk with Sir Ivor about a lot of things, including this dogs business. Haven’t been to bed yet, actually.” (So that’s the explanation of the malicious glee in the bastard’s voice, thought Driver, shivering.) He said nothing and waited.

“Well, look, anyway—Sir Ivor thinks you’ve done very well on the dogs job. Are we right in thinking that it can’t possibly go on much longer? They’re bound to be killed within a couple of days at most, aren’t they?”

“Yeah, bound to be. Well, I mean, there’s two companies of paratroops after ‘em, isn’t there?” (Digby Driver, like far too many otherwise quite sensible people, habitually used the term “paratroops.”) “They’ll be shot to bits—I couldn’t alter that with a million bloody pounds, and nor could anyone else.”

“Yes, Kevin, I know that all right, but this is the point. Sir Ivor thinks you’ve done very very well, and you may like to know that it’s rumoured that Basil Forbes is resigning—there’s glory for you! But the thing is, before we switch the story off and put you on to child prostitution in the Home Counties yum yum, he thinks there might be a chance to discredit Harbottle by some means. Harbottle’s coming up your way tonight, you know, on purpose to be in at the death. The death can’t possibly be averted, can it? Because if it could, Sir Ivor says we’d back you with everything, to make Harbottle look a fool—”

“Oh, have a heart, Quilliam! You know there’s not a hope in hell—”

“All right, all right, dear boy, keep it cool! Well, now, look, next best thing. Can you watch out for a chance to show Harbottle in a bad light? You know, bullet-riddled dog screaming in agony and Harbottle grinning, or something? The public wouldn’t dig that, however much they’ve been upset by the Westcott business. If you could manage it, Sir Ivor would be enormously pleased. Just do your best, laddie. I’ll have to go now. Good luck, my boy!”

Click.

“O my God!” said Driver, banging down the dead receiver and turning to stare out of the window at the moonlit fell. “Lo, I am with you always, even unto the end of the bloody world, eh? Who’d be a reporter?”

He made a cup of tea and then, thoroughly depressed, dialled the London number of the young woman who had played the part of Chubby Cherub in Out for the Count. (Digby Driver was currently “between girls.”) If Susie was in a good temper, and in her bed, and if there did not happen to be anyone else in it, perhaps she might chat with him for a bit. No man is an island, and it was only by force of circumstance that Digby Driver was continent.

“Soldiers aal ower bluidy fell,” said Dennis Williamson, “chasin’ hither and yon and frittenin’ yows to booggery, tha knaws. Newspaper chaps bangin’ on’t door hafe th’ day, an’ folk in cars drivin’ oop an’ down t’ lonnin, oppenin’ gates and crooshin’ wire fences when they reverse. Ah reckon forty pounds’ worth o’ damage. Ah’ll tell thee, Bob, theer’s soomone’s goin’ to get a bang from me before this lot’s doon with.”

“Ay, an’ yon helicopter scann’ cows—they’ve all been gallopin’ oop an’ down field fit to bust theirselves. An’ theer’s joost nowt ye can do, owd lad, so ye can set yeself down and thank your stars as theer’s political chaps to stand oop for British farmer.”

“Theer were soldier fella saw one of my dogs ont’ fell, tha knaws, Bob, when Ah were tryin’ to get yows down out o’t waay. Dog were oop top o’ Blaake Rigg an’ I were down below, like, an’ this basstard took a shot at it an’ missed.”

“Oh, ‘ell!” said Robert.

“Ay, that’s about soom of what Ah said an’ all. He only took the one.”

“Ah’ll tell thee what,” said Robert. “We’ve joost got bluidy noothing out of this lot, owd lad. Science chaps an’ newspaper chaps an’ political chaps—they’ve all been joost pain int’ neck. Dogs have doon no harm at all compared with them, that’s about it. Ah wouldn’t mind seein’ dogs get clean awaay, would you?”

“Well, that’s one thing ye’ll not see, Bob,” said Dennis. “The booggers have got no more channce now than tick in a sheep-dip, tha knaws.”

He nodded grimly and drove on down the valley, while Robert went to drive the cows into the cowshed to be out of the way of the helicopter.

Thursday the 25th November to Friday the 26th November

The assurances given by the Secretary of State in the House had been as effective as he had intended. There could be no possible doubt in the minds of the vast majority—if not of all—the newspaper-reading public that the drama of the Plague Dogs was now hastening—rushing—to its catastrophe. The sagacious power of hounds and death drew closer every hour. Certainly the dogs seemed to have vanished from the vicinity of the Dow Crag, and since the discovery of Westcott’s body no one had reported seeing them elsewhere. Obviously, however, it could not be long before one or other of the patrolling helicopters spotted them, or else, as heretofore, some motorist or farmer would encounter them on one of their nocturnal forays. Once their approximate whereabouts was known the soldiers would close in and that would be that. Like the journeyings of King Charles after Naseby, the dogs’ movements had become, though they might not themselves be aware of it, those of hunted fugitives. Their death was now a foregone conclusion—indeed, an anticlimax—and public interest was, if anything, on the wane.

Where did they wander that night, when they had left the fields of Long House in the Tarn Beck valley of Dunnerdale, soon after Hot Bottle Bill had uttered his winged words to the Commons and the airborne soldiers had begun moving into billets at Coniston? They went southward, heading into a wind that bore the smells of salt, sheep and seaweed, the only communication reaching them out of all the encompassing miles of darkness. A cold rain had begun to fall, and before they passed above Seathwaite church and rounded the Newfield this had become a heavy downpour, so that Rowf, jibbing at the roaring, boiling beck beyond the old school-house, turned downstream along its right bank, following it to where it runs under the Ulpha road. Slinking down that long, exposed road in almost pitch blackness, they sought what shelter they could from the flanking stone walls; and in a mile came, cold and clemmed with hunger, to Hall Dunnerdale. But here Robert Lindsay’s dogs began to bark, and on they went once more until they reached the Duddon bridge by Phyllis Dawson’s. They could see almost nothing and the smell of the rain weakened all smells else, so that they did not recognize the scene of Snitter’s escape from Mr. Powell and the inside of his own head. But indeed, they were now oppressed by a sense of hopelessness and dread which, as it continued during hour after hour of the stormy night, weighed upon them more heavily than their own rain-sodden coats, so that for much of the time they were conscious of little but the wind and rain. Not one car met or overtook them all night, yet they did not stop or look for shelter. The continuous sound of flowing water, from the chattering rills along the verges under his paws to the distant commotion of the Duddon, troubled Rowf like an evil dream of fear and suffering revived, while to Snitter it seemed that the wind carried grim echoes—heavy, hound-like pantings and far-off squeals of desperation and death. Not until dawn began to reveal, little by little, the dull shine of the sodden grass and the tugging of the bushes in the wind, did they rest at last for a time, behind Jenkinson’s tombstone opposite the door of Ulpha church, from the pelting of the pitiless storm.

It will have been about an hour later that their bedraggled forms were seen, lurking at the bottom of his garden, by Roy Greenwood, former Himalayan mountaineer and Outward Bound instructor, the vicar of Ulpha-with-Seathwaite. Roy, as was his practice, had got up in the dark of the winter’s morning to pray for two hours before breakfast and a full day’s work; and as he knelt in intercession for the sins and grief of the world and the misery of its countless victims, human and animal, he caught sight, through the window, of two furtive shapes beneath the bare ash trees, where Japanese-faced tomtits swung on a bone suspended from a branch and brown, sea-trout-harbouring Duddon overflowed its banks below.

Roy knew little or nothing of the Plague Dogs, for he could not afford the London Orator and had in any case more urgent and important things to do than read it—such as visiting the sick, lonely and afflicted, or giving one or other of the local farmers a hand out with yows. He had, indeed, vaguely heard some local talk, but this did not now return to mind. He could see that the dogs were famished and in distress, so he went outside and tried to get them to come to him, but they would not. Then—having precious little else to give them—he went in and got the greater part of what had been going to be his own breakfast, together with all he could find edible among the scraps (which was not much). This he put outside and, since he still could not induce the dogs to approach, went back indoors. When, an hour and a half later, he set out for Seathwaite, largely breakfastless, the food was gone and so were the dogs. This (it is interesting now to record) was the last person to have any real contact with the dogs before the end and the only person, apart from Mr. Ephraim and Vera Dawson, who showed them any kindness throughout the time that they were at large.

Exactly where they spent that stormy Friday, while the sodden, cursing soldiers searched for them from Walna Scar to the Grey Friar and over to Wreynus Pass, is uncertain and perhaps not really important. But during some of the daylight hours—those of the afternoon, perhaps—they must have crossed, unseen by anyone in the dismal weather, the deserted wastes of Ulpha Fell and Birker Moor, and so come down into Eskdale. Probably they went almost as far north as Harter Fell and then down by Kepple Crag, crossing the swollen Esk by the bridge near Penny Hill, for Rowf would hardly have faced the thunder of Dalegarth Force, or even Birker Force in spate after twenty hours’ continuous rain. At all events, we know that by nightfall they were not far from the Woolpack—that justly illustrious pub, with its excellent beer, slate flagstones and snug, draughtless rooms—for here, only a short while after closing time, they committed their last depredation when, appearing suddenly out of the darkness, they pushed past Mrs. Armstrong, the licensee, as she was about to close the back door, grabbed a tongue and a cold roast chicken from the kitchen table and made off with them in a matter of seconds. If Mrs. Armstrong were not a most competent and practical lady, the Woolpack would not be the pub it is; but black Rowf, snarling like a wolf, was an alarming sight and in addition had all the advantage of surprise. Snitter, with his green collar and cloven skull, would by now have been recognized anywhere from Barrow to Carlisle. As he followed Rowf at a run along the steep, zig-zag path leading from the back of the Woolpack up to Great Barrow and the Eel Tarn, Mrs. Armstrong was already—and very understandably—on the telephone. Before midnight Major Awdry, second-in-command of the 3rd Parachute Battalion and officer in charge of Operation Gelert, had appreciated the situation and drawn up his plan; and soon after dawn on Saturday morning the two companies of airborne soldiers, browned off at the shortage of sleep but consoled by the prospect of a quick end to the business, were already moving into their allotted positions.

“—so I’m afraid that’s really the long and short of it,” said Dr. Boycott.

Mr. Powell remained standing by the window in silence. His face wore a puzzled expression and he had something of the air of a man who, having just been stopped in his tracks by a bullet or a heavy blow, has not yet begun to feel the pain. He seemed not to know what to make of Dr. Boycott’s news.

“There’s really no need to let it upset you,” went on Dr. Boycott after a pause. “In fact, you know, it might very well turn out to be a blessing in disguise. We don’t want you to think of it as a dismissal; you’re not being dismissed at all, you’re being transferred in your grade. I don’t know where, yet. It might be Porton Down, it might be somewhere else.”

“There’s still the question of why me and not anyone else,” said Mr. Powell, looking out at the gulls circling above the fell in the rainy, silver sunset.

“Well, obviously we can’t discuss the matter in those terms,” said Dr. Boycott, with the matter-of-fact briskness of one prepared to do anything reasonable but to entertain nothing foolish.

“Has there been some sort of report and if so can I see it?” asked Mr. Powell.

“Now, Stephen, you really must be sensible about this,” said Dr. Boycott. “You know very well that even if there were a report you couldn’t see it. You’re quite entitled to an interview with the Director if you wish, but he’ll only tell you the same as I’m telling you. And I repeat it: this is a transfer in your grade. It will mean no loss of pay and no loss of prospects. It’s primarily an unfortunate matter of expediency—an experiment in retrenchment, if you like, that we’ve been told we’ve got to carry out. That’s the right way to look at it. One has to think of the job first. We all do.”

“An experiment. Yes, well, I can see that.” What Mr. Powell could actually see were the outspread, barely moving wings of the gulls, at one and the same time gliding and remaining, like a spiralling eddy in a beck. He had not in fact been enabled by Dr. Boycott’s last utterance to arrive at any new way of looking at the matter, and this was not surprising, since that utterance added nothing whatever to what he had already been told. But he was not by temperament a fighter, being naturally disposed to respect his superiors and to proceed upon the assumption that their wishes were probably right and justified. His. normal inclination was to co-operate with them and accept what he was told.

Suddenly he blurted out, “Only—only you see, chief, I—er—well, I didn’t really want to make a move just at the moment. I mean, the upheaval of a move—all the—well, I mean, the disturbance and that. It’s—er—someone—well, I mean, personal reasons, sort of, you know—”

Dr. Boycott looked down at his blotting-pad in silence. What might this be—a mistress—some crypto-homosexual friendship? He knew Mr. Powell to be immature and ingenuous. He hoped he was not about to say anything embarrassing. Mr. Powell, however, seemed to have come to a full stop.

“Well,” replied Dr. Boycott at length, “I can only repeat, Stephen, that you’re quite entitled to see the Director if you like. I’m sure he’d welcome a chat in any case. You’ve done us all a good turn, you know, that’s quite clear. You must never think anything else. We all wish you well and I’m sure you’ll go on to do great things. Anyway, you certainly don’t have to get up and go this minute: you do appreciate that, I hope.” He smiled. “We’ve got to find you a job commensurate to your abilities and potential, you know. You really mustn’t let it worry you. Think it all over this week-end and if you like we’ll certainly have another word on Monday; although I don’t honestly know whether there’s anything I shall be able to add.” After a pause he went on, “By the way, we’ve got another dog to spare now for that water immersion experiment, so we’ll be able to make a fresh start on that before you go. Could you be looking out the papers on the first dog—you know, the former number seven-three-two? And now good night; and mind you have a really good break over the week-end.”

“Yeah, righty-o. Thanks, chief. Thanks very much. Good night.”

Mr. Powell went out into the long corridor and walked slowly down it, hands in pockets, rocking first on one foot and then on the other, toe-heel, toe-heel, like a man lost in thought. Yet what his thoughts were he could not have said. The boy Tom came towards him, carrying a long wire cage of guinea-pigs, and he moved to one side to let him pass. At the far end of the corridor he paused for a time by the window, looking down at the beck, which had risen to submerge the tussocks of grass and tufts of bog myrtle growing along its banks. There was a trailing branch which dipped continually into the water, was swept backwards and out again by the force of the current and then, rebounding from the extremity of the thrust, once more sprang forward and plunged itself under the surface. He wondered how long it had been doing this and when its pliancy would be exhausted: then idly took a stop-watch from his pocket and timed the little cycle. During a full minute, it did not vary from a regular three and two fifths seconds. Well done, branch. Still plenty of resilience and no sign of letting up.

After a while he went across to Lab. 4, took off his white coat, washed his hands and made preparations to go home, packing into his despatch case his newspaper, a nasal spray and pen left on his desk, a phial of corrosive acid for his domestic do-it-yourself kit (the habitual misappropriation of which from laboratory stock saved him a trifle) and some papers which he had intended to look at over the week-end.

Suddenly he threw down his mackintosh, walked quickly across to the balance cupboard and opened it. The cylinder, secured by its clip, was standing in the far corner. There were no sounds of movement, but he noticed some condensed drops of moisture round the ventilation holes. The slate showed 41+ days. Mr. Powell unclipped the heavy cylinder, lifted it out with both hands, carried it over to a bench and unscrewed the top.

The monkey was crouching in a foetal posture, knees drawn up to chin and head bowed between them. It did not move as he peered in. There was a stench of ordure mixed with disinfectant.

Mr. Powell reached in and lifted the monkey out by the scruff of the neck. It made no resistance and he thought it must be unconscious, but as he gently raised its head with one finger and thumb it opened its eyes and immediately closed them once more against the unaccustomed light. Mr. Powell tucked it under his coat, screwed down the top and put the cylinder back in the balance-cupboard, draped his mackintosh over his shoulders and went out to his car.

Saturday the 27th November

It was about half past seven and the rain had ceased. On the open gravel in front of the Woolpack, Major John Awdry, M.C., stood briefing company and platoon commanders in the first light. It was a mild enough morning, though very wet underfoot, and at least one thrush could be heard from a mountain-ash down by the Esk, as well as two robins who were asserting themselves to one another from opposite ends of the Woolpack garden.

“O.K., now just to recap,” said Major Awdry. “The dogs were seen here, on these premises, hardly more than eight hours ago. They’re almost certainly not far away, and if that’s correct the nature of the area should enable us, with the help of the helicopters, first to surround them and then—well, to shoot them. B company will go three miles down the valley to Eskdale Green, where they’ll deploy two platoons north of the Esk and two south; got the northern and southern extremities of the line of advance marked, haven’t you?”

Captain Cranmer-Byng, commanding B company, nodded.

“Then at 08:30 hours you begin moving eastward up the Esk valley in an unbroken line, maintaining lateral communication by whistle, Very light, eyesight and anything else you like. You search any cover that might conceal the dogs; copses, of course, thoroughly, but also sheds, recesses in river banks, sheepfolds, bloody paper bags—the lot. And you do NOT repeat NOT on any account break the line of advance. You’re a drag net, got it? Between 11:00 and 11:30 hours the company will halt on the line Boot-Eskdale Church and company commander reports to me, unless of course the operation’s finished earlier. O.K.?”

He glanced round. The B company platoon commanders, together with the C.S.M., who was commanding a platoon in substitution for a subaltern on leave, nodded.

“Fine. Now meanwhile, C company will disperse its platoons to the four map references already given; at Gill Bank on Whillan Beck; Stony Tarn; Taw House; and the foot of Hard Knott Pass. There they’ll deploy as widely as practicable and at 08:30 hours they’ll start patrolling back down the lines of the Esk and the respective tributary streams, until they get here.

“While everybody’s doing that, operational H.Q. will remain here, in R/T contact with both company H.Q.s and in ground-to-air contact with the helicopters. The two helicopters are due over fifteen minutes from now, and they’ll maintain a continuous watch on the northern and southern fells above the Esk valley, flying backwards and forwards along the 1,000-foot contour lines. If they spot the dogs anywhere along the tops, they’ll inform this H.Q. and I shall issue further orders as appropriate.

“Now one last thing, gentlemen, and this is of the greatest importance. No one, but no one, below the rank of platoon commander is to open fire. Is that quite clear?”

“Excuse me, sir,” said Captain Reidy, “but at that rate why are the blokes carrying live ammo?”

“I’ll tell you why,” answered Major Awdry, “and this is not to go any further. Because this damn’ Cabinet Minister, Secretary of State, whatever he is, won’t let us alone; and unless I’m very much mistaken, he sees this operation primarily as a publicity stunt for his own benefit. So orders are to carry live ammo. Intrepid paratroops—yes, real live paratroops, gentlemen, think of that—are combing the fells for the wicked Plague Dogs, all armed to the balls. And he’ll probably be here in a minute, along with the B.B.C. television, talking to private soldiers and grinning into cameras. And he knows as much about the blokes as I know about Esquimau Nell—less, I should think.

“Yesterday afternoon, on the Grey Friar, some bloody man saw a perfectly harmless sheep-dog on a crag and popped off on his own initiative. He missed it, thank God. That dog was rounding up sheep and it belonged to a local farmer who quite rightly played merry hell. One more incident like that and we’re all in the shit. The place is stiff with newspaper reporters. Apart from that, you realize that bullets can travel three miles and ricochet off stones and God knows what? Once we get blokes like Private Lawes and Corporal Matthews loosing off at their own sweet will—” He left the sentence unfinished.

“What’s the form then, Major, if someone spots the dogs?” asked Cranmer-Byng.

“Keep them in sight and inform the section commander, who informs the platoon commander,” replied Awdry. “Platoon commanders are authorized to fire in person only if they’re absolutely certain that it’s safe to do so and that the dogs are beyond doubt the ones we’re looking for. Any questions?”

“Will there be anything for the blokes to eat when they get back here, sir?” asked a platoon commander.

“Yes, Admin, are laying on a meal for 12:00 hours, but you appreciate that that’s dependent on whether some or all of us have got to go chasing from here to Ravenglass or something.”

“Sir.”

“No other questions? O.K., let’s get cracking.”

The platoons embussed and departed up and down the valley. John Awdry sat down on the bench under the sycamore tree which stands in the middle of the gravel and accepted a cigarette from the R.S.M.

“Well, sir, doesn’t look like it’ll be much longer now,” said the R.S.M., “unless the dogs got out of the valley during the night, which ‘ardly seems likely. I don’t see how a rat could get through that lot. We ought to be back in Catterick by this evening.”

“You’re probably right,” answered the Major. “I only wish I felt a bit more enthusiasm for the business, that’s all.”

“Well, it’s not much, but at least it gets the lads out on a real job, sir. They’ve all been keen enough, in spite of the rain.”

“You feel sorry for the dogs, I expect, Major, don’t you?” asked Travers, the H.Q. subaltern. “I know I do.”

“Frankly, yes,” said Awdry. “I dislike the whole business of experiments on animals, unless there’s some very good and altogether exceptional reason in a particular case. The thing that gets me is that it’s not possible for the animals to understand why they’re being called upon to suffer. They don’t suffer for their own good or benefit at all, and I often wonder how far it’s for anyone’s. They’re given no choice, and there’s no central authority responsible for deciding whether what’s done in this case or that is morally justifiable. These experimental animals are just sentient objects; they’re useful because they’re able to react; sometimes precisely because they’re able to feel fear and pain. And they’re used as if they were electric light bulbs or boots. What it comes to is that whereas there used to be human and animal slaves, now there are just animal slaves. They have no legal rights, and no choice in the matter.”

“Well, of course, those are big questions, sir,” said the R.S.M. “But these ’ere two dogs ‘ave consumed a dead man’s body and goodness knows what.”

“They’re animals and they were starving,” said the Major, throwing his cigarette away and rising to his feet. “They can still suffer, can’t they?”

“Well, we don’t know how much, sir, do we?” said the R.S.M. comfortably.

“No, not really, but it just occurs to me that creatures living entirely in the immediate present, through their physical senses, may suffer more rather than less intensely than we do. Still, I suppose you may be right about the need to shoot them, sarnt-major—public concern and all that. What I don’t like about this particular lark is what you might call the Spartacus set-up.”

“That was a film, wasn’t it, sir? About ancient Rome?”

“Well, the film was a lot of balls, really,” said John Awdry. “The real Spartacus was a bloke who led a slave rising in ancient Italy and got away with it for a bit because there didn’t happen to be an adequate Roman force in the country at the time. They had to bring an army back from Spain. But my point is that in the event these slaves, whose grouse was that most of them had been brought to Italy against their wills and made to exist entirely for other people’s benefit and not their own, hadn’t really got a chance. They were ignorant and disorganized. All that happened was that they went wandering about the country until they were smashed up, which is exactly what these dogs have done. Apparently one of them was being drowned in a tank of water every day, or something; so it didn’t like it and acted accordingly. And now we’re called in to shoot it at a public cost of thousands of pounds. I find that depressing. Still, you’re right about one thing, Mr. Gibbs. It’s bound to be over quite soon now. Where the hell have those R/T blokes got their feet under the table?”

“In the front dining-room, sir, by invitation of the good lady. She’s laid on char and wads for them.”

“Good for her. Well, let’s go and see if they’re in contact with B and C company signals yet. Look, here come the helicopters. Not long to go now. Let’s hope it’s over within the hour.”

“They’re going to kill us, Rowf. As soon as it’s light enough for them to see us.”

“How can you tell?”

“I don’t know, but I’m quite sure they mean to kill us. They’re watching us.”

“How can they be? It’s still dark.”

“No, I mean the flies. The flies out of my head. They’ve grown huge—they’re circling round and round over the hills. They can talk to the whitecoats. I dreamt it all.”

“You’re hungry and tired out. Why don’t you go to sleep again?”

“No, I got nearly half the chicken in spite of you, old Rowf; I’m all right. I wish they hadn’t taken the guts out, though. Not half as good as those ones we killed for ourselves, was it? Rowf, it’s the last one we’ll ever steal. I know that.”

Rowf stood up and looked about him.

“No, they’re not here yet, Rowf. But d’you remember the tobacco man had a little window he used to open and look in at us? They can watch us. They’re going to kill us.”

“They’ll have their work cut out with me. Thought you said your master was out there?”

“He is, only he can’t—oh, Rowf, I don’t know what I meant when I said that. I was dreaming. Don’t make it worse!”

“That’s why it’s bad for animals. We don’t know anything, we don’t understand anything. The men could do something for us if they wanted to, but they don’t.”

“There are men all round us. It’s the mouse—the mouse told me.”

Rowf was about to answer when Snitter threw up his head and howled—a long cry of anguish and fear. Two grouse got up and rocketed off into the darkness. Their rattling calls died away and the silence returned—a silence made up of wind in the ling and the rustling of the sedges covering half the surface of the little, lonely Eel Tarn on the edge of Burnmoor, five hundred feet above the Woolpack.

“Snitter, where are those men you talk about? They’ll hear you—”

“I’m howling for my death—no, it’s for yours, poor old Rowf; yours and the tod’s. I can’t remember any more what it was he asked me to say to you. I do so wish I could.”

“‘Gan on till the Dark.’ Well, the tod’s got no more to bother him now.”

“I remember one thing he said. He said, ‘It’s not the Dark that frightens me, it’s their riving teeth.’ That’s how I feel, too. I hope it won’t hurt.”

Snitter paused, nose in the wind. Suddenly he said, “We’ve finished being wild animals. That’s all finished. So we’ll go down now.”

“But it’s lonely here—safer.”

“The flies would see us anyway, as soon as it’s light. So we’ll go down.”

“I won’t go back in the tank! I won’t go back in the tank! Rowf! Rowf!”

The wind strengthened across the moor, driving the clouds eastward before it. Snitter began to move slowly away upwind, westward down the course of the little outfall from the Eel Tarn. Rowf followed reluctantly. Soon they came to the Brockshaw Beck, and thence to the big Whillan Beck pouring down off the moor to join the Esk below Boot. Stone walls and sheepfolds loomed up about them in the dark and a solitary light shone out from the village half a mile below. Snitter held on his way, following the Whillan Beck down into the valley.

“Snitter, where on earth are we going?”

“There’s a gully that leads into a drain under the floor. The mouse says we’ve got to find it. It’s that or nothing now.”

On they went, downward, down the course of the noisy beck in spate. Rowf could hear, somewhere beyond them in the dark waste, the rising, bubbling cry of a curlew and the whirring of a snipe disturbed from the bog.

“You say we aren’t wild animals any more?”

“I don’t think we were very good at it really, do you? Only when we had the poor tod.”

“I know. If I were really a wild animal, I’d leave you now, Snitter. Wherever are you taking us?”

“We’ve got to be down the gully before daybreak.”

“But, Snitter, what gully?”

“I don’t know. Oh, look, Rowf, the stones are dancing! D’you remember the white stuff falling out of the sky?”

They clicked and pattered their way through Boot, watched only by the cats on the walls. Once, when a rat ran across the road Rowf, fearful and subdued, let it escape unchased between the stones of the wall. First light was coming into the east and the crinkled summit of Harter Fell showed plainly against the dawn. When they reached the road that leads down the valley, Snitter broke into a run and Rowf followed him, the wound in his neck throbbing as his pulse beat faster with fear.

“Snitter, this is a road, do you realize? Men, cars, lorries—”

“It’s very close,” muttered Snitter. “The gully’s very close now.” As though following a scent, he laid his nose to the ground and ran on.

And now the terrified Rowf could hear plainly the sound of a car approaching behind them. As it grew closer he dashed across to the wall on the opposite side of the road.

“Quick, Snitter, over the wall!”

Snitter jumped the wall after him, his short legs scrabbling at the top before he cleared it and dropped down on the other side. The car drove past. Rowf, lying in a clump of withered goose-grass, docks and dead sorrel, looked about him.

A little way off, a broad strip of the ground was oddly black and granular, and along this some strange-looking metal lines went stretching away into the distance. On these was standing what looked like a row of small, painted carts—or at any rate, wheeled, wooden contraptions not unlike carts—some with roofs and others open to the sky. Beyond them, Rowf could make out a flat, concrete platform in front of what looked like sheds. But all was deserted. There were no men, there was no noise, no paper, no smell of tobacco: only, from somewhere in the distance, a hissing of steam and odour of coal-smoke.

Rowf looked back at Snitter and was appalled to see him curled up under the wall, conspicuous as a plover, apparently in the act of falling asleep. He reached him in one bound.

“Snitter, what in death’s name d’you think you’re doing? You can’t stay there! Get up!”

“I’m tired, Rowf—very tired. The mouse says go to sleep now.”

“To blazes with the mouse! Do you know where we are? We’re in an open field, in full view—”

“I’m tired, Rowf. I wish you and the tod hadn’t pulled me out of my head that day. I might have found out—”

Rowf bit him in the leg, and he stood up slowly and dazedly, as though roused not by pain but rather by hunger or some distant noise. Scarcely able to restrain himself from flight, Rowf urged and bullied him forward until, as they came up to the line of wooden carts-strange they seemed, on their metal wheels, like little rooms or pens, with benches inside—Snitter, of his own accord, made his way up on the concrete platform and there lay down once more. It was at this moment that Rowf heard the unmistakable sound, only a few yards away behind the sheds, of a man’s boots on gravel, and caught a whiff of cigarette smoke.

“Snitter, there’s a man coming! Come on, get in there, quick! Yes, there, under the bench, seat, whatever it is—right to the back!”

Agonizingly slowly, Snitter obeyed. Rowf, following, had just time to flatten his shaggy belly on the boards and crawl under the wooden seat as a man in blue overalls came round the corner of the shed and, with a scraping of nailed boots on the concrete, passed within three feet of them on his way up the platform.

“Driver Orator.”

It was still dark. Digby Driver had a headache. He had not cleaned his teeth the night before, there was a foul taste in his mouth and he was busting for a pee.

“It’s Ted Springer here, Kevin, of the Meteor. Aren’t you blessing me, eh? I can hear you are! Listen, boy, I’m doing you a good turn, that’s what. The dogs turned up late last night in Eskdale.”

“Eskdale? Where the hell’s that, Ted?”

“North-west of Dunnerdale. The Paras have moved in already. They’re going to start combing out the whole valley as soon as it’s light this morning. Thought you’d like to know. Now aren’t I a nice bloke? The things we do for England, eh? Don’t forget me next time you run into something good, will you?”

“You’re a pal, Ted. Thanks a lot. I’m on my way. See you down there.”

Digby Driver crossed the landing and returned, rinsed out his mouth, put a Polo mint into it, huddled on his clothes and duffle-coat and made his way down into the hall. There was no one about. Thank Christ it wasn’t freezing, anyway. As he was pulling on the muddy gum-boots which he had left in the umbrella-stand (wrought iron, circa 1890), the post came through the letter-box with a stuffing, a scuffling and a papery scraping, and flumped on the mat. From somewhere in the lower regions a warm, well-fed house-dog barked to hear it. Digby Driver had his hand on the Yale latch and was about to open the door when one of the letters caught his eye. It was addressed, in no hand-writing that he recognized, simply to Digby Driver, London Orator Reporter in the Lake District. He picked it up. The postmark was five days old. Someone had endorsed it Try Dunnerdale in violet ink, and below this someone else had written, in red ink, Try Coniston.

He shook it and bent it. It was thin, light and entirely pliant. It was evidently not a bomb.

Digby Driver sat down on the hall settle and split open the envelope.

“Well, here we are in Eskdale and it’s perfectly possible—indeed, it’s more than likely—that we’re going to be in on the last act of this tremendous drama of the Plague Dogs, who’ve had the whole Lake District by the ears—yes, I said by the ears, ha ha—for several weeks past. I’m William Williamson of the B.B.C., of course, as I expect you know, and with me here is Major Aubrey, of the Paratroops—oh, sorry, Awdry, is it? Little Audrey laughed and laughed, no relation, eh, oh well, we’re all disappointed, I’m sure. And Major Awdry is in command of this very necessary and exciting operation to find and shoot these dogs, who’ve been putting on a sort of wild west cattle-rustling act up and down these beautiful Lake District hills ever since they escaped from their Coniston Research Station six weeks ago. Now what’s it feel like, Major, to be in command of a show like this?”

“Well, it’s a job and it’s got to be done.”

“Do you feel like a bounty hunter after desperadoes in Arizona?”

“Not really, no. I feel sorry for the dogs. I like dogs.”

“But not these dogs, eh? They’re something that’s just got to be dealt with at once, of course, before there are any more of these terrible tragedies. Well, that’s very interesting, thank you, Major. Now Major Awdry’s men are out on the fells and meadows of this beautiful Lakeland valley—rather wintry now, but in summer it’s surely one of the great ice-cream carton resorts of England, ha ha—and as we move along the road you can see what a beautiful place it is—careful now, everybody, the dogs might be lurking just behind that shed there, let’s have a look, no they’re not and on we go. Well, here’s the miniature railway station terminus at Dalegarth, just a little way below the charming, old-world village of Boot; and I don’t know whether you’re surprised, but I know I am, to see that one of the miniature trains is actually standing in the station and that apparently the engine’s got steam up; because I thought this railway only ran during the summer, for the holiday visitors. Anyway, here’s the driver coming along now, so I expect he’ll tell us something about it. Good morning, sir, now let’s see, you’re called—er—Graham Withers, I believe, aren’t you?”

“Well, just at present, yes.”

“Ha ha. Justly celebrated local figure, eh? And you’re going to drive that very smart little locomotive—I hope, viewers, you can all see the glossy paint and the brass shining, can you? It’s obviously very well looked after indeed—and the whole train you’re going to drive, down to—where, now?”

“Ravenglass.”

“How far’s that?”

“‘Bout seven or eight mile, as the line goes.”

“Only I thought the train only ran in summer. Let’s see, they call it Ratty, don’t they?”

“Ratty, ay, that’s right. Everyone oop here calls it Ratty.”

“Why’s it called that?”

“Well, Ah doan’t just rightly know. But that’s what everyone calls it, like.”

“And how come you’re up here at the far end of the line, with steam up, on a morning in late November?”

“Well, there’s three locomotives, see—they’re named River Esk, River Mite and River Irt—after the three rivers that flow into t’estuary at Ravenglass. We keep ‘em in trim during t’winter—maintenance an’ so on—and we’d just finished bit of an overhaul on this one, so I thought I’d just give it a run up to Dalegarth an’ back, see how it were fixed. I came up Thursday, actually, but it were that wet and stormy yesterday I left takin’ it back while today.”

“Splendid. And of course you haven’t seen anything of the Plague Dogs?”

“Nay.”

“And what would you do if you did?”

“Happen give ‘em a lift.”

“Ha ha, very good. Well, there’s an unexpected bonus for viewers—the Ratty’s locomotive River Irt is just about to set out from Dalegarth for Ravenglass, with veteran driver Graham Withers in the cabin. Casey Jones got nothing on him, eh? Now we’re going on down the Esk valley, as you can see, and here’s the patrolling screen of paratroops—the Red Devils, as they’re called—who are working their way up the valley to meet another lot of paratroops coming down. Up above, in the sky, you can see the Royal Naval helicopters who are patrolling the fells on each side, and I’m sure we all feel sure that this has really got to be the end of the Plague Dogs at last. If we’re lucky you might even be able to see them shot. Now here’s one of the paratroopers, and your name is—?”

“Private Lawes, sir.”

“Well, how do you feel about this operation?”

“Well, I mean, like, yer on a job, I mean, aren’t yer, and if yer on a job, I mean, well, yer sort of do the job, like, know what I mean? I mean, like, well, it’s a job, ennit, know what I mean?”

“Yes, of course. And suppose you were to catch sight of the dogs under the bank of the river there? You’d shout tally-ho, would you?”

“Well, I mean, yer’d sort of see they was the dogs, like, wooden yer, and you report to the section commander like, know what I mean, and the dogs, well, mean to say—”

“You know what the dogs look like?”

“Oh, yeah, well, I mean, the dogs, see, they’re sort of like, well, dogs, know what I mean—”

“Now here’s a very splendid-looking limousine coming along the road, and I believe this may be—yes, I’m right, it is—the Secretary of State himself, the Right Hon. William Harbottle. We’ll just see if we can have a word with him. Good morning, Mr. Harbottle. William Williamson, B.B.C. Television. I wonder whether you’d care to tell the viewers how you feel about this business?”

“Well, I’m very much concerned about it, naturally. I attach the greatest importance to finding and killing these dangerous dogs as soon as we possibly can. And that’s what we’re going to do. I believe my political—I mean, I believe public peace of mind positively requires—”

“Ah, there goes the train, puff puff puff, what a lovely sight! Everybody’s childhood dream, eh? Thank you very much indeed, Secretary of State. Well, as you’ve seen, it would hardly be possible for a fly to get through this magnificent cordon of helicopters and paratroopers, so that probably by the time viewers see this programme the menace of the Plague Dogs will have been ended for good and all. At any rate we all hope so. And so, good hunting, the Red Devils! This is William Williamson returning you to the studio—”

Rattle and bump and clanking of wheels and puff puff puff from somewhere in front. Coal-smoke and steam blowing back through the sliding doors of the little wooden carriage. Chatter of water and hollow rumble rumble over a bridge and peat-brown stream below.

Rowf lying tense, head on paws, peering out from beneath the seat at the tree-trunks dashing past and then at the long line of old mining cottages standing close to the track. Snitter, beside him in the far corner, curled up in the dust and grit, sleeping as though in a basket. The continual movement and fugitive shapes a few feet from his muzzle raise in Rowf an almost unendurable excitement; it’s all he can do not to leap up and chase after these runaway plants and branches as they flick at him and disappear. A long, brown frond of bracken draws a line of peat-scented moisture along the threshold of the carriage before vanishing with a sodden slap and a spattering of drops against the woodwork. Rowf jumps up with a bark and Snitter wakes.

“Snitter! Where are we? What’s happening? Why’s everything got loose—where’s it going? The wind—rowf, rowf!”

“Lie down, old Rowf! Let it alone! Be quiet!”

“Someone throwing sticks, rowf, rowf!”

“We’re down the gully; the mouse’s gully in the floor, remember? It’s the only place left to hide, but you must keep still. There are men walking about just over your head.”

“I do keep still, but everything else is moving.”

“The tobacco man’s washing the floor. Remember? It’s only rubbish. He’s brushing it all away.”

Through Beckfoot Halt beside the road, labouring a little uphill now and a robin’s sharp twitter here and gone among the trees. Scents of bog myrtle and soaking moss, and a distant shouting—men answering each other, high voice and low voice, whistles blowing down in the fields below Spout House and beyond the Esk.

“It’s something the whitecoats are doing, isn’t it? D’you remember, they put Zigger on some steps that kept on moving? He said he had to run until he dropped.”

“Lie down, Rowf. We’re all right here. You can tell—it doesn’t hurt. They’re just breaking up all the rocks and trees and heather they made, that’s all.”

“All those brown men, look—a whole line of them, red hats, going across the fields down there—”

“They’re only breaking up the fields. Don’t let them see you.”

Curving down into the little station at Eskdale Green, watched by three children with their chins propped on the parapet of the bridge. Polished brasswork gleaming in the early morning sunshine and Graham Withers tooting on the whistle and giving them a wave. Slowly through the station, platform almost level with the floors of the carriages and an old paper bag blowing in, patting Rowf a wet sog on the nose, grab it quick splodge munch no good at all. A white gate and an old nanny goat grazing at the end of a long chain.

“The red hat men have gone now. What’s coming when it’s all gone?”

“The black milk will boil. Go to sleep, Rowf.”

“You dragged me into this, Snitter, and now you say go to sleep.”

Leaves and branches flying by; helicopter in the sky. Airborne soldiers on the lea, Plague Dogs riding to the sea. Redwings, fieldfares, cows and sheep; should we cheer, d’you think or weep? Plague Dogs all the way from A.R.S.E., riding down to Ravenglass. What’s that car so black, sedate? That’s the Secretary of State, him as sealed the Plague Dogs’ fate. Wheel and piston, steam and tank, autumn oak-leaves in the bank, chuff chuff chuff and clank clank clank.

“You know, I was keen to be a good dog, Snitter. I really wanted to be a good dog. I’d have done anything for them; anything but the metal water.”

“They weren’t real masters, Rowf. They didn’t particularly want you to be a good dog. They didn’t care what sort of dog you were. I don’t know what they did want. I don’t believe they knew themselves.”

And here’s Irton Road station, and the little river Mite, all the way down from pretty Miterdale—least known and quietest of Lakeland valleys—formed from the becks of Tongue Moor, Illgill Head and the Wastdale Screes. Hail to thee, blithe Mite, and hurrah for Keyhow and the Bower House, and your wet green fields full of black-headed gulls! Whirling snipe, orange-legged sandpipers, gorse in bloom on a winter’s morning. Meadow pipits flighting up and down, flying ahead of the train, flicker and shut, flicker and shut, tweet tweet.

“But surely, Snitter, dogs ought to be able to trust men, oughtn’t they?”

“It doesn’t matter any more, old Rowf.”

“I know—I’m only saying these things to stop myself jumping up and barking at the things rushing past. I wasn’t a good dog. Wish I had been.”

“Whatever dogs were meant for, they weren’t meant for the metal water. If you can’t live by rotten rules you have to find some of your own.”

“What other rules did we find?”

“The tod’s.”

“They weren’t right for us. We couldn’t live by them either.”

“I know. The truth is I lost my home and you never had one. But it doesn’t matter any more.”

Now there rises on the left the hog’s back of Muncaster Fell, its west face high above the line, throwing the little train into chilly shadow as it runs under the fellside and past Murthwaite, with only three miles to go.

“I remember a butterfly beating itself to bits against a window-pane. A whitecoat saw it and opened the window and put it out. He’d come to put me in the metal water. How d’you explain that?”

“The butterfly laid eggs that turned into the caterpillars you ate. Remember?”

Hooker Crag and Chapel Hill, and here’s the Thornflatt water-mill. A pitch forward-shot wheel, I rather think, splashing and turning among its ferns and lichens and shining, green liverworts. Come on, wheel, sing up! “War es also gemeint, mein rauschender Freund, dein Singen, dein Klingen.” Is that for poor Mr. Ephraim? Can you see our friend Rowf, peering out from under the seat and rattling by in bewilderment? “Ach unten, da unten die kühle Ruh.” Well, you can’t expect him to appreciate that, can you? Be reasonable, wheel.

On the slope behind, look, there are some rabbits who—yes, have the use of their eyes, really—sit up and watch the train a moment-then bolt for their holes—you can see the rufous patch at the backs of their necks. The rabbits get used to the trains in summer, but probably this lot weren’t born when last summer’s season ended with waving flags and paper bags and sticks of rock all round. A cock chaffinch, slate head and plum breast, flashes white wings and vanishes into the gorse. A magpie flickers in an elder tree and the Plague Dogs, the Plague Dogs are riding to the sea. Here are the pancakes of yellow tide-foam, and the Plague Dogs are riding to their salt sea home. Could you or I have contrived to disappear in Eskdale and turn up in Ravenglass, with two hundred soldiers looking for us under every stone? I trow not. Give them a cheer. There’s nothing like a good loser, after all.

“Rowf, can you smell the salt?”

“I can hear gulls calling. How quickly they’ve changed it all, haven’t they?—even the hills.”

Along the estuary we go, black-and-white oyster-catchers flashing rapid, pointed wings and peeping off their alarm notes as they fly, and an old heron flapping slowly away by himself. Can that be the tod I see, with Kiff, up on a cloud? No, I beg your pardon, must have got some hairspray in my eyes, but let’s raise a cheer all the same. Never again, hide in a drain, ride in a train, died in the rain—it’s not raining yet, anyway.

“Houses, Snitter! Look! Oh, Snitter, real, natural houses!”

As the River Irt came steaming into the Ratty terminus and depot, Snitter cocked his ears and looked cautiously out through the door. Seagulls he could certainly hear, and distant, breaking waves. Everything around seemed flat and open, smelt salty, stony. Sand and grass. Houses, smoke and dustbins.

“They’ve put the houses back, Rowf. I knew they’d have to, sooner or later.”

“The trees and things have stopped flying past. All blown away, I suppose.”

“I know. But there’s the wall we jumped over, look—over there. I can recognize that all right. Well, obviously they’d want to keep that.”

“What shall we do?”

“Stay here until everything’s quiet. Then we’ll run off among the houses.”

“D’you think it might be a change for the better at last?”

“I don’t know. It can hardly be a change for the worse.”

“I’d like to be sure of that.”

The letter was written in pencil and a shaky hand, and Digby Driver was obliged to take it over to the window.

“Oh, boy!” cried Digby Driver, aloud. “Now he tells me! But what the hell to do about it?” He took out his car keys and swung them round and round his index finger. After a few moments they flew off and landed on the linoleum on the other side of the hall. Mr. Driver, retrieving them, suddenly addressed his reflection in the still-dark window-pane.

“The bloody cow!” he said aloud. “Good God! What did she—? Well, Christ, I’ll see her for a start, anyway.”

He turned up the collar of his duffle-coat, poked two of the toggles through the loops and pulled on his gloves.

“A line, a line, I gotta think of a line! The good journalist ignores no event that takes place, but turns all to his advantage.’ Yes, but what the hell can I do with this?” He stamped his foot on the floor in frustration, and once again the dog barked in the basement. A female voice called soothingly, “Lie down, Honey. Wassa fuss-fuss, eh? There’s a girl!”

“Darling doggies!” yelled Digby Driver, in inspiration and triumph. “Stares you in the face, dunnit? And with just a bit of luck it’s got everything, Harbottle and all! O God, give me time, just time, that’s all! What ho for the great British public!”

He dashed out into the winter dawn. Two minutes later the tyres of the green Toledo were sizzling down the wet road to Dalton-in-Furness.

Ravenglass, on the coast south-west of Muncaster Fell, has a railway station (other than Ratty), a pub, a post office, two to three hundred inhabitants and a single street two hundred yards long. All round it lie the sands and channels of the estuary of the Irt, Mite and Esk, and it is sheltered from the Irish Sea outside by the low, sandy peninsula of the Drigg nature reserve—two miles of dunes and marram grass—which covers the estuary as its flap a letter-box. As long ago as 1620 the place was noted for gulls’ eggs and for the numbers of waders and sea-birds attracted to the feeding-grounds of these shallow, tidal waters. It is not a spot where strangers can expect to go unremarked for long—not in winter, not in the early morning, not if they happen to be plastered across the newspapers and wanted in three counties.

Was it Harold Tonge, perhaps, the landlord of the Pennington Arms, who first saw Snitter dancing in. the street at sight of a real lamp-post? Or his trusty henchman Cec., having a look up and down the windy, gull-tumbled street, who recognized the grim shape of Rowf lifting his leg against a white wall below a fuchsia hedge? Or perhaps Mrs. Merlin, the postmistress, emptying a metal wastepaper basket doing-doing against the rim of a dustbin, caught sight of a black-and-white, cloven head looking perplexedly at the stony beach and seaweed-strewn pebbles below the houses? Before the outgoing tide had laid bare the sands of the estuary, conviction and consternation had flooded the village. Incredible as it might be, these were the Plague Dogs, walking the street in bewilderment and broad daylight. Fasten your gates, lock up the stores, bring all the cats and dogs indoors. Get on the qui vive, the telephone and the stick. Grimes is at his exercise. Those who despise us we’ll destroy.

The instant Annie Mossity opened the dront door, Digby Driver had his foot in it. At the look on his face she started back.

“Mr. Driver—what—what—you’re very early—I—”

Digby Driver pushed past her, turned, slammed the door and stood facing her in the hall.

“Mr. Driver, what’s the meaning of this intrusion? I can’t talk to you now. I’m just going—”

Without a word, Digby Driver drew out the letter and held it up. For a moment she caught her breath and her eyes opened wide. The next, she had recovered herself. Her hand moved towards the Yale lock.

“Mr. Driver, will you please leave my house at—” Driver put his two hands on her shoulders and spoke quietly. “You can scream the bloody place down, you cruel, cold-hearted bitch! Now get this—I’m not going to be lied to and messed around any more, see, whatever you do to other people. I haven’t got much time; and you’re not dealing with a gentleman now, either, so just watch it, because I’m angry. If you try fainting or throwing hysterics, all that’ll happen is you’ll wish you hadn’t, got it? Now, listen. Your brother knows that that’s his dog, and he knows that it’s alive. You didn’t tell him you’d sold it, did you? You told him it ran away. Why did you let me think your brother was dead? Why? Come on, Mrs. Bloody Moss, you dirty, lying cow, tell me the truth or I’ll break your neck, so help me Christ I will! I’m angry, see, and I might forget myself!”

“Mr. Driver, don’t you dare to lay hands on me! You’ll regret it—”

He stood back.

“Are you afraid of me?”

She nodded, staring.

“So you damn’ well ought to be. Well, the remedy’s in your own hands. Tell me the truth and I’ll go. And mind it is the truth this time. Because if it’s not, I’ll make the whole blasted country loathe the name of Mrs. Moss, you see if I don’t!”

When one rogue has been found out in the deception of another, the scene is seldom an edifying one. Mrs. Moss, sobbing, sank down on a hall chair, while Mr. Driver stood over her like Heathcliff getting to work on Isabella Linton.

“I—I—always ha-ated the dog! I hoped—hoped my brother would get married—he used to make use of the dog to tease me—I know he did—the house always so untidy and—and mud all over the floor—my brother didn’t care! The dog caused the accident—people saw it—they told me—the dog ran on the crossing and my brother ran out after it. I hated the dog—why should I be expected to keep it–oh!–oh!–”

“Come on,” said Driver. “What else?”

“I sold the dog to the research people. They promised me I’d never see it again! They said it would never leave the station alive.”

“You took it up there yourself? And you took the money and spent it on yourself, didn’t you? Keep talking.”

“When you came to see me, I knew that if I told you my brother was—was alive you’d go and see him and he’d get to know what had happened. And then I realized you thought he was dead, so I let you go on thinking—why shouldn’t I?—oh, hoo, hoo! I’m frightened, Mr. Driver, I’m frightened of you—”

“You needn’t be, Mrs. Moss, you rotten, spiteful sow, because I’m leaving your shit-house now. You’ll be delighted to know I’m on my way to see your brother in the hospital. And I can let myself out, thanks.”

He left her drawing shuddering breaths where she sat on the chair, closed the front door behind him and strode swiftly down the path to the gate. He was surprised to realize that not all his indignation was for himself.

“It’s not possible,” said Major Awdry. “Ravenglass? There must be some mistake. Two other dogs. Fog of war and all that.”

“How about asking one of the ‘copters to go down, sir?” suggested the R.S.M. “He can be there in a few minutes and report to us on the R/T. Then if necessary we can call both companies straight in. If it really is our dogs at Ravenglass, they can’t ‘ardly run no further, and we could be down there by eleven-thirty at latest.”

“Yes, good idea,” said Awdry, putting down his tea-cup. “How far is it to Ravenglass by road, Mr. Gibbs?”

“About ten mile I make it, sir,” answered the sergeant-major, consulting his map.

“Twenty-five minutes, then, once they’re embussed. Sergeant Lockyer, can you call up Lieutenant-Commander Evans, please? I’d like to have a word with him myself.”

“That was one of the flies out of my head, Rowf.”

“Scared me stiff. I thought it was going to come down and crush us. The noise alone’s enough to—”

“There’s nowhere to hide—nowhere to go. What’ll we do?”

“Snitter, it’s coming back! Run, run!”

Bushes flattened in a tearing wind, all else blotted out by the smacking blat-blat-blat of the blades. Terrified, aware of nothing but fear, all senses—smell, sight, hearing—overwhelmed with fear like green grass and branches submerged in a flooding beck, Snitter and Rowf ran across the shifting stones and shingle, on to the pools and brown weed of the tideline and down to the bare ebb-tide sands.

“Over here, Snitter, quick!”

“No, not that way! This way—this way!”

“No—that way!” Rowf voiding his bowels with fear. “Away from the people! Look at them up there! They’re watching us! I won’t go back in the tank! I won’t go back in the tank!”

From the shore of Ravenglass across to the Drigg peninsula is a quarter of a mile of water at high tide, but at low tide the Mite and Irt flow in a narrow channel down the centre of the sands and it is possible to cross almost dry-shod. As the helicopter turned and remained hovering a hundred yards away, Rowf, with Snitter hard on his tail, raced down the sands and plunged into the outfall, found a footing, lost it again, struggled, flung up his head, scrambled, clawed and dragged himself out on the further side.

Shaking the water out of his shaggy coat, he looked about him. The sodden body of a dead gull, evidently left by the tide, was lying a few yards away. He himself was bleeding from one hind paw. Snitter, carried down with the current, had fetched up against a rock and was clambering out. The helicopter had not moved. Ahead rose the smooth, sandy dunes, one behind another, tufts of marram grass blowing against the sky.

“No men up there, Snitter! Come on!”

Running again, wet sand cold between the claws, dry sand blowing into eyes and nostrils, sound of breaking waves beyond the hillocks; raucous cries of gulls.

“Rowf! Look!”

Rowf stopped dead in his tracks, hackles rising.

“It’s the sea, Rowf—the sea the tod told me about that day, after I’d come out of my head! I remember what he said. He said, ‘Salt and weeds. It’s all water there.’ I didn’t understand how a place could be all water. Look—it’s moving all the time.”

“It’s not alive, though. It’s another of those damned tanks. They’ve turned the whole world out there into a tank! I wouldn’t have believed it.”

“The sand’s nice and warm, all the same,” said Snitter, lying down at the foot of a dune. “No men. Out of the wind.”

He curled himself up as the song of the waves stole gently along the shore and through the whorls of his broken skull.

“I wish—I wish I could see my master just once again,” murmured Snitter. “We were always so happy. That poor terrier—I’d have tried to help her if I hadn’t been so frightened. I wonder what’ll happen to them all now—the terrier and the lorry—the mouse and all the rest of them? I’m afraid they won’t be able to manage without me. They’ll disappear, I suppose. But I must go to sleep now—I’m so tired. Good old Rowf—I must try to remember—remember what the tod said—”

Rowf, too, had lain down in the sand and was sleeping as a dog sleeps who has wandered for two nights and a day. The tide was still ebbing and the sound of the waves receding, gentler and softer.

The helicopter remained where it was, poised above Ravenglass, for the dogs were in full view through binoculars and there was nothing to be gained by disturbing them as the soldiers drove up, got out of their buses and fell in outside the Pennington Arms.

Major Awdry, having located the dogs, was half of a mind simply to take a rifle and cross the estuary by himself. On second thoughts, however, it seemed best to send a platoon across in extended order, for the dogs had already shown themselves remarkably resourceful and even now might try to escape northward towards Drigg. No. 7 platoon, swearing at the prospect of more wet feet and wet boots, crunched down the shingle, deployed on the sands and began crossing the estuary. Awdry and the platoon commander carried loaded rifles.

It was too early for visitors at the hospital and Digby Driver, in the hall, was referred to a notice confirming the hours; however, as the reader will have no difficulty in believing, he knew a trick worth two of that. He spoke forcefully of urgent and pressing business, flashed his press card and offered, if desired, to bring Sir Ivor Stone in person to the telephone. The West Indian sister, an Orator reader, knew his name and found his cheek rather attractive. The hospital were not altogether unused to bending the rules for visitors on a Saturday and anyway the nurses felt sorry for the nice, gentlemanly Mr. Wood, who had suffered such dreadful injuries and had so few visitors. He was, Digby Driver learned, at present convalescent in a small post-operational ward of only two beds. The other bed was empty at the moment, the patient having been discharged on Friday. Putting out his cigarette and following the directions he had been given, Mr. Driver walked, breathing the familiar hospital smell, along numerous corridors, went up in a lift, and upon getting out found himself opposite the right door.

Mr. Wood, who had ceased to expect any reply to his letter, was surprised and gratified to find Digby Driver at his bedside. He looked wretchedly ill and explained that he still had a good deal of pain in his left leg, which had been broken in two places.

“It’ll never be as good as it was, I’m told,” he said. “Still, I shall be able to walk again—after a fashion—and drive a car; and I’ll be able to get back to work, of course, which’ll be everything. But Mr. Driver, kind of you as it is to come here, I’m sure you didn’t make the journey simply to hear about my health. Can you tell me about the dog in the photograph? Is it my dog?”

“You tell me,” answered Driver. “There are the originals.” And he laid them on the sheet before Mr. Wood’s eyes.

“Why, that is Snitter!” cried Mr. Wood. “There’s not a doubt of it!” He looked up with his eyes full of tears. “Good God, what have they done to him? However could he have fallen into their hands? I can’t bear to look at it. Mr. Driver, please tell me at once—where is the dog? Have they killed him or what?”

“Look,” said Driver, “I’m terribly sorry, but I’m afraid the truth is that they may have. The two dogs were seen in Eskdale late last night and soldiers are searching the valley for them at this moment, with orders to shoot on sight. They certainly wouldn’t listen to anything I could say, but if they’ll let you out of here, I’ll drive you up to Eskdale myself and give you all the help I can.”

“Well, they can’t legally stop me discharging myself. You’re most kind. But, it’s going to be a hell of a business. I can only walk with someone else’s help. I can stand the pain, but I get very tired.”

“I’m someone else, Mr. Wood.”

“You really think there might be a chance of saving Snitter?”

“I think there’s a sporting chance that we might be able to do something, though I’m damned if I can see what, just off the cuff. And I’m afraid it’s more than likely that it may be too late. I can only repeat, I’ll help to get you out and I’ll drive you up there as fast as I can. This is one hell of a story, you see, and of course it’s the story I’m after—I’ll be frank about that. But I’m on your side, too, Mr. Wood—I genuinely am. Come on, where are your clothes—in that wardrobe? Right, here we go. Once we’re in the car I’ll tell you all about the whole thing.”

To pilot Mr. Wood out of the hospital did indeed prove a task almost beyond the power of Digby Driver his very self. Only he could have pulled it off. Heracles would have owned the Alcestis operation a right doddle in comparison. Twice he almost came to actual grips with members of the staff. Telephone calls were made to consultants, but these Digby Driver ignored. The summoned house surgeon on duty, a pleasant enough young man, he invited to send for a policeman, sue the London Orator or jump into Wastwater, as preferred. The hall porter (Africa Star with 8th Army clasp) was told that if he laid a hand on the patient or his escort the London Orator would have his guts for garters. At the door, however, all resistance suddenly evaporated and the resolute, hobbling pair, watched with uncomprehending astonishment by the early visitors, festooned with dire warnings and leaving behind hands, both black and white, emphatically washed of them on all sides, reached the green Toledo and set off for Eskdale by way of Broughton and Ulpha.

The wind, veering round into the east, carried to the sleeping Rowf’s unsleeping nostrils the smells of rifle oil, leather and web equipment. A moment more and his waking ears caught the sound of human voices. He stared in terror at the extended khaki line across the sands.

“Snitter! The red-hat men are here—they’re coming!”

“Oh, Rowf, let me go to sleep—”

“If you do, you’ll wake up on the whitecoats’ glass table! Come on, run!”

“I know they’re all after us—I know they’re going to kill us, but I can’t remember why.”

“You remember what the sheep-dog said. He said his man believed we had a plague, a sickness or something. I only wish I had—I’d try biting a few of them.”

In and out of the undulant dunes, the marram, gorse and sea holly, dead trails of bindweed and dry patches of clubrush. Down winding, sandy valleys doubling back on themselves, catching sight once more of the soldiers now horribly nearer; dashing through deep, yielding sand, over the top and down; and so once more to the sea-wet shore, long weeds, gleaming stones, flashes and pools; and beyond, the breaking waves.

“Snitter, I won’t go back in the tank! I won’t go back in the tank!”

Rowf ran a few yards into the waves and returned, a great, shaggy dog whining and trembling in the wind.

“What’s out there, Snitter, in the water?”

“There’s an island,” said Snitter desperately. “Didn’t you know? A wonderful island. The Star Dog runs it. They’re all dogs there. They have great, warm houses with piles of meat and bones, and they have—they have splendid cat-chasing competitions. Men aren’t allowed there unless the dogs like them and let them in.”

“I never knew. Just out there, is it, really? What’s it called?”

“Dog,” said Snitter, after a moment’s thought. “The Isle of Dog.”

“I can’t see it. More likely the Isle of Man, I should think, full of men—”

“No, it’s not, Rowf. It’s the Isle of Dog out there, honestly, only just out of sight. I tell you, we can swim there, come on—”

The soldiers appeared, topping the dunes, first one or two, here and there, then the whole line, red berets, brown clothes, pointing and calling to each other. A bullet struck the rock beside Rowf and ricocheted into the water with a whine.

Rowf turned a moment and flung up his head.

“It’s not us!” barked Rowf. “It’s not us that’s got the plague!”

He turned and dashed into the waves. Before the next shot hit the sand he was beside Snitter and swimming resolutely out to sea.

“To Ravenglass?” said Digby Driver. “Are you sure? Can they really have got there since last night? It must be all of eight miles, even in a dead straight line.”

“That’s what the paratroop officer said, sir. Seems one of the helicopters actually saw the dogs on the beach. Anyway, that’s where the soldiers went, and all the newspaper men have followed them; and the Secretary of State too, in his car. They’re all down there.”

“Good God!” said Digby Driver to Mr. Wood, who was half-lying on the back seat and biting his lip at each spurt of pain in his leg. “This seems incredible! Are you all right? D’you want to go on?”

“Yes, if that’s where Snitter is, I can make it. It’s very good of you, Mr. Driver—”

“Oh, bollocks!” said Digby Driver, letting in the clutch with a jerk that almost drew a cry from Mr. Wood. “I’m as big a darling doggies sucker as any old Kilburn landlady. On we go! We were left galloping, Jorrocks and I.”

“Joris and I.”

“Precious little the matter with you,” said Digby Driver.

“Don’t exhaust yourself, Snitter; don’t struggle so hard! Just keep afloat.”

“I can’t seem—to manage it! Why have we gone such a long way already?”

“There’s a current carrying us along the shore and away from it as well. Is it far to the island, Snitter?”

“Not very far, old Rowf.”

“Bite on to my tail if you like. I learnt a lot about staying afloat in the tank, you know.”

“Everything rocks up and down.”

“Keep it up. We must get to the Isle of Dog!”

Splashing and struggling and choking mouthfuls of salt water. Tossing up and down, spray in the eyes. Bitterly cold now, and horribly lonely and a sudden screaming of gulls, fierce and angry, but nothing to be seen.

“Rowf? There’s something terribly important I’ve got to tell you; about the tod; but I’ve hurt my head and I can’t remember it.”

“Never mind. Just stay afloat.”

“Dammit!” said Digby Driver, pulling up. “This isn’t right. I’m afraid I’ve been concentrating on driving at the expense of map-reading. This obviously can’t be the road to Ravenglass. Have you any idea where we are?”

“‘Fraid not,” replied Alan Wood. “I’m a bit done up. to tell you the truth—haven’t been noticing much for a bit. I’ll try and get myself together.”

“That must have been Drigg we just came through,” said Driver, looking at his map. “Yeah, and we’ve gone under the railway line, you see. I’d better turn round. Oh look, there’s a chap just got out of that Volvo up there ahead. Let’s go on up and ask him.”

Jolting and swaying, and Mr. Wood clutching his plaster-of-paris leg and just succeeding in keeping quiet, with the sweat running down his white face.

“I say, excuse me, sir, we’re looking for some soldiers—paratroopers—have you seen any? Can you tell us the way to Ravenglass?”

The burly, pleasant-looking, soldierly man in gum-boots and an anorak came up to the driving window.

“Looking for soldiers, are you? Well, as far as I can make out you’ve come to the right place—or rather, the wrong place from my point of view. Just got back here from Gosforth and find ‘em prancing all over my nature reserve, restricted areas and all. Never so much as a word of warning, let alone a request for permission to enter. And there’s a helicopter up there, terrifying every bird for miles. I’ve a damn good mind to ring up the War Office and ask them what the hell they think they’re doing.”

“I may be able to help,” said Driver. “I’m a newspaperman. That’s why I’m after the soldiers. And the soldiers are after the so-called Plague Dogs, if you know about them. D’you mind telling us where you fit in?”

“My name’s Rose—Major Rose. I’m the warden of the Drigg nature reserve. That’s all this peninsula, as far as it goes down—about two miles of dunes. Well, what the hell do the soldiers think they’re doing, can you tell me? Fortunately it’s a slack season now, very few migrants about, but dammit all, it’s bad enough. My wife’s told me she heard a couple of shots fired. I ask you! Shots!”

Mr. Wood could not suppress a cry of anguish.

As quickly as possible, Digby Driver explained the position. Major Rose listened with evident sympathy and understanding.

“Well, we might just be in time to do something yet. For one thing, no one can legally use a firearm in the nature reserve, and I don’t care who the hell they are. Come on, let’s get down there in the car—or as far as we can. I’m afraid the track doesn’t go anything like as far down as Drigg Point, but it’ll take us a good bit of the way and after that I expect we’ll be able to manage something. Can I hop in beside you, Mr, Driver? Splendid, You all right, Mr. Wood? God, you’ve got some guts! Walked out of the hospital, did you, just like that? Good for you! Sure to be a blessing on that.”

They had not gone far down the peninsula when they observed two red berets stumbling their way towards them over the undulant dunes. They could be seen pausing, looking out to sea through binoculars and pointing. Major Rose got out and went briskly to meet them, while Digby Driver helped Mr. Wood out of the car and gave him his shoulder to do the best he could to follow. It took them several minutes to reach the soldiers. When they finally did so, Major Rose seemed to have calmed down a little.

“Mr. Driver,” he said, “this is Major Awdry, who tells me he’s in charge of this dogs’ exercise, and oddly enough we’ve both been in the same regiment—before he transferred and started jumping out of aeroplanes, that is. He tells me they haven’t shot your dog, Mr. Wood, but I’m afraid it’s a bad prospect for the poor beasts, all the same.”

“What’s happened?” cried Mr. Wood. “Where are they?”

“They’re out there,” said John Awdry grimly, pointing and handing over his binoculars. “I’m afraid you can hardly see them now. The tide’s taken them out pretty far and there’s a north-setting current that’s sweeping them up the coast as well.”

“They might come ashore on Barn Scar,” said Major Rose. “That’s a sandy shoal, you know, that stretches out quite a long way about a mile and a quarter north of here. Tide’s on the turn, too. If only they can stay afloat,” he added. “Your chaps won’t be shooting any more, will they? Where are they, by the way?”

“I left them down by the point,” replied Awdry, “while Mr. Gibbs here and I came up the shore to try and keep the dogs in sight. No one’s authorized to fire except officers, and we won’t, of course, so don’t worry about that.”

Mr. Wood, having been helped to sit down, remained staring out to sea through the binoculars without a word. There was, however, nothing now to be seen between the tossing waves and the grey, November sky.

“Can’t—any more—Rowf.”

“Bite on to me, Snitter. Bite!”

“Cold.”

“The island, Snitter—the Isle of Dog! We must get there!”

“Cold. Tired.”

No feeling in the legs. Cold. Cold. Longing to rest, longing to stop, losing two gasps in every three for a lungful of air. The stinging, muzzle-slapping water, rocking up and down. This isn’t a dream. It’s real, real. We’re going to die.

“I’m sorry—Snitter, about—about the tod. All my fault.”

“That’s it! Remember—tod—tell you—reet mazer—”

“What?”

“Reet mazer—yows—”

Cold. Sinking. Bitter, choking dark.

SCOTT, Sir Peter, Companion of the British Empire: Distinguished Service Cross.

Chairman of the World Wildlife Fund. Director of the Wildfowl Trust. Wildlife Painter. Ornithologist, naturalist and international wildlife preservationist.

Born 1909, son of Captain Robert Falcon Scott [of the Antarctic]. Exhibited paintings at the Royal Academy, London, since 1933. Specialist in painting birds and wildlife. Many lectures and nature programmes on British television since World War 2.

Winner of the international 14-foot Dinghy Championship, 1937, 1938, 1946. Bronze medal, single-handed sailing, Olympic Games, 1936.

Royal Navy, Second World War. Awarded M.B.E., D.S.C. and bar. Three times mentioned in despatches while serving in destroyers in the Battle of the Atlantic.

President of the Society of Wildlife Artists.

President of the International Yacht-Racing Union, 1955–69.

President of the Inland Waterways Association.

President of the Camping Club of Great Britain.

Chairman of the Survival Service Commission.

Chairman of the International Union for the Conservation of Nature and Natural Resources.

Chairman of the Fauna Preservation Society.

Chairman of the Olympic Games at Melbourne, 1956; at Rome, 1960; and in Japan, 1964.

Member of the Council of the Winston Churchill Memorial Trust.

Explored the unmapped Perry River area of the Canadian Arctic, 1949. Leader of expeditions to Australasia, the Galápagos Islands, the Seychelles Islands and the Antarctic.

Gliding: International Gold Badge, 1958. International Diamond Badge, 1963. British Gliding Champion, 1963. Chairman of the British Gliding Association, 1968–70.

Royal Geographical Society Medal, 1967.

Albert Medal, Royal Society of Arts, 1970.

Bernard Tucker Medal, B.O.U. 1970.

Arthur Allen Medal of Cornell University, 1971.

Icelandic Order of the Falcon, 1969.

Publications include: Morning Flight, Wild Chorus, The Battle of the Narrow Seas, Key to the Wildfowl of the World, Wild Geese and Eskimos, A Thousand Geese, Wildfowl of the British Isles, Animals in Africa, The Swans and The Fishwatcher’s Guide to West Atlantic Coral Reefs.

Has illustrated (inter alia): Adventures Among Birds and The Handbook of British Birds.