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  OTHER YEARLING FAVORITES

  BY DICK KING-SMITH

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  Published by Yearling, an imprint of Random House Children’s Books a division of Random House, Inc., New York

  Text copyright © 1988 by Dick King-Smith

  Illustrations copyright © 1988 by Jez Alborough

  Cover art copyright © 1998 by Jon Goodell

  Originally published in Great Britain in 1988 by Victor Gollancz Ltd.

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  ISBN 9780440403807

  eBook ISBN 9781101938508

  Reprinted by arrangement with Crown Books for Young Readers

  v4.1

  a

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Yearling Favorites by Dick King-Smith

  Title Page

  Copyright

  1. What a dear little thing!

  2. You must be stupid

  3. What a jolly name!

  4. Now I’ve got nine!

  5. Was it a buck?

  6. It’s boring!

  7. A big sleek dark one

  8. Enough to make a cat laugh

  9. It was love at first sight

  10. Mayday! Mayday!

  11. Number Eight

  12. Promises, promises

  13. You must be joking!

  14. Escape

  15. Alec Smart

  16. All the smells of home

  17. He brought me a strawberry once

  1

  What a dear little thing!

  “Mercy! Mercy!” cried the mouse.

  It felt like a rather fat mouse, and when Martin took his paw off it, he could see that indeed it was.

  “Oh, dear!” he said. “I’m most awfully sorry!”

  —

  Even when the farm kittens were very young, not long after their eyes first opened in their nest in an old hay-filled wooden crib, the mother cat, whose name was Dulcie Maude, had known that Martin was different from his brother, Robin, and his sister, Lark. (Dulcie Maude, as you can see from her choice of names, was fond of small birds.)

  Robin and Lark soon began to have play fights, leaping upon one another from ambush and pretending to tear out each other’s throat with fierce little squeaky growls. But Martin did not like the rough stuff and would hide behind his mother. And when Dulcie Maude first brought home a very small mouse for the growing kittens, Martin wouldn’t touch it. He watched his brother and sister as they worried at the tiny gray body, but he would not join in.

  “Aren’t you going to try a bit, Martin?” said his mother. “Mice are nice, you know. What’s the matter?”

  “It was so pretty,” whispered Martin. “Poor little thing.”

  “Don’t be such a wimp,” said Robin with his mouth full.

  “You’re just a scaredy-cat,” said Lark.

  “I quite agree,” said Dulcie Maude sharply. “Whoever heard of a cat that didn’t like mice!” And she gave Martin a spank. “Now start eating and stop being so silly!”

  Somehow Martin managed a mouthful of mouse. Then he went into a corner and was sick.

  And so it went on. Dulcie Maude brought home more and bigger mice, and, being a no-nonsense mother, insisted that Martin always eat a bit of mouse before he be allowed any of the kinds of canned meat that the farmer’s wife put out for the cats. All of these—chicken or liver or fish flavored—Martin liked, but he was made to finish his mouse meat first, and though he learned to keep it down, he could not learn to enjoy it.

  Luckily Robin and Lark always took the lion’s share, shoving their wimpish brother out of the way, and at last the day dawned when Dulcie Maude dumped a final mouse in front of the kittens and said in her brisk way, “Now, then, I’ve worn my claws to the bone catching mice for you all, and you’re quite big enough now to hunt for yourselves. You’re on your own. See you around.”

  Robin and Lark were delighted. It was exciting to think of themselves as real hunters, and in barn and byre they stalked their prey or lay in wait and soon met with success.

  Martin was delighted too. It meant that he need never again eat mouse. Pretty little things! he mused. They shall not suffer because of me. I shall never catch one.

  But though his intentions were good, his instincts, handed down to him by generations of expert mousers, were too strong, and he caught the very first mouse he met.

  At the time, he was exploring in a loft over an old cart-shed. In the days that followed after his mother had left the kittens to their own devices, Martin had done a lot of exploring. Unlike the others who were busy hunting, he had plenty of time to wander around the farm. Already he had learned a number of lessons that a farm kitten needs to know. Cows have big feet that could easily squash you, sows get angry if you go too near their piglets, broody hens are bad-tempered birds, and collie dogs chase cats.

  Humans, Martin was glad to find, didn’t chase cats. The farmer paid little attention to him, but the farmer’s wife made sure he had enough to eat, and the farmer’s daughter actually made quite a fuss of him, picking him up and cuddling him. One day she took Martin to see her rabbits, three white rabbits with pink eyes, that she kept in three large hutches at the bottom of the garden. Why did she keep them? he wondered.

  The next time that Martin met his mother on his journeys, he asked her about this.

  “Mother,” he said. “Why does that girl keep those rabbits?”

  “As pets,” Dulcie Maude said.

  “What’s a pet?”

  “A pet is an animal that humans keep because they like it. They like looking after it, feeding it, stroking it, making a fuss of it.”

  “So we’re pets, are we?”

  “Strictly speaking, I suppose. Dogs certainly are, always fussing around humans, sucking up to them.”

  “What about cows and pigs and sheep?”

  “No, they’re not pets,” said Dulcie Maude. “Humans eat them, you see.”

  “But they don’t eat cats and dogs?”

  “Of course not.”

  “And they don’t eat rabbits?”

  “Yes, they eat rabbits. But not pet rabbits.”

  “Why not?”

  As with most mothers, there was a limit to Dulcie Maude’s patience.

  “Oh, stop your endless
questions, Martin!” she snapped. “Curiosity, in case you don’t know, killed the cat!” And she stalked off, swishing her tail.

  —

  It was curiosity, nevertheless, that led Martin to climb into the cart-shed loft to see what was in it. What was in it, in fact, was a load of junk. The farmer never threw anything away in case it should come in handy one day, and the loft was filled with boxes of this and bags of that, with broken tools and disused harnesses and worn-out coats and empty tins and bottles that had once contained sheep dip or cow drench or horse liniment.

  Against one wall stood an old white enameled bathtub with big brass taps and clawed cast-iron feet, and it was while Martin was exploring beneath it that something suddenly shot out.

  Automatically, he put his paw on it.

  “I’m most awfully sorry!” he said again, but the fat mouse only continued to say, “Mercy! Mercy!” in a quavery voice. It seemed to be rooted to the spot, and it stared up at Martin with its round black eyes as though hypnotized.

  How pretty it looks, thought Martin. What a dear little thing!

  “Don’t be frightened,” he said.

  “It is not for myself alone that I beg you to spare me,” said the mouse. “You see, I am pregnant.”

  What a strange name, thought Martin. I’ve never heard anyone called that before.

  “How do you do?” he said. “I am Martin.”

  What a dear little thing, he thought again. I’d like to look after it, to feed it, to stroke it, to make a fuss of it, just as Mother said that humans like to do with their pets. After all, he thought, some humans eat rabbits but some keep them as pets. So in the same way, some cats eat mice, but some…

  “Shall I tell you what I’m going to do with you?” he said.

  “I know what you’re going to do,” said the mouse wearily. “After you’ve finished tormenting me, you’re going to eat me.”

  “You’re wrong,” said Martin.

  He bent his head and gently picked up the mouse in his mouth. Then he looked about him. He climbed onto an old wooden chest that stood handily beside the bathtub and looked down into its depths.

  The perfect place, he thought excitedly. My little mouse can’t escape—the plug’s still in the drain and the sides are much too steep and slippery—but I can jump in and out easily. And he jumped in and laid his burden carefully down.

  The mouse lay motionless. Its eyes were shut, its ears drooped, its coat was wet from the kitten’s mouth.

  “Shall I tell you what I’m going to do?” said Martin again.

  “Kill me,” said the mouse feebly. “Kill me and be done.”

  “Not on your life!” said Martin. “I’m going to keep you for a pet!”

  2

  You must be stupid

  The mouse did not reply. It lay on the rust-stained bottom of the bathtub, shivering.

  “Oh, dear, you’re cold!” said Martin, and he began to lick the mouse with his warm tongue. But this only made it shudder violently, so he leaped out of the bathtub and began to look about the loft for something that would serve as bedding for his new pet.

  First he found a piece of felt about a foot square, an offcut from the underlay of an old discarded carpet, and he managed to jump back into the tub with the felt in his mouth. He laid it down and put the mouse carefully on it. Leaping out again, Martin began to collect mouthfuls of straw from the stuffing of an old horse collar, packing it around the fat mouse to make a nest. Its eyes were open again, he noticed when he had finished, but it seemed to have lost its tongue, for when Martin said, “Comfy now?” it did not answer.

  At any rate, it stopped shivering, he thought. Now I’d better get it some food.

  He was halfway across the farmyard when it occurred to him that he did not know what mice ate. I can’t ask Mother, he thought, or Robin or Lark. They mustn’t know about my mouse.

  He looked around and saw a sheep, peering through the bars of the yard gate from the field beyond. Sheep, he knew—because Dulcie Maude had told the kittens—were pretty thick, but maybe this one would know. He padded over to it and said politely, “Can you help me?”

  “You?” said the sheep.

  “Yes.”

  “Can I help you?”

  “Yes.”

  “No,” said the sheep.

  “But you don’t know what I was going to say next,” said Martin.

  The sheep appeared to be considering this. It was chewing its cud, and its lower jaw went steadily round and round with a crunching noise. Its yellow eyes looked quite mad.

  “How can I know what you’re going to say next?” it said at last. “What do you think I am—a mind reader?”

  “No!” said Martin. “No, I certainly don’t.”

  The sheep, which had a long sad face, looked disappointed at this, so Martin hastened to comfort it.

  “But I’m sure,” he said, “that you know all about mice and what they like to eat.”

  “Mice?” said the sheep.

  “Yes.”

  “Field mice?”

  “No, house mice.”

  “I don’t know anything about house mice,” said the sheep. “How could I? I don’t live in a house. I live in a field.”

  “So you know about field mice?”

  “No,” said the sheep. “Do you?”

  “No,” said Martin.

  “Then you’re stupid,” said the sheep, and walked away.

  Martin made his way to the cowshed. Cows, he knew—because Dulcie Maude had told the kittens—were a bit brighter than sheep, and he walked along the low wall that separated the standings from the hay-filled feeding passage behind until he came to a cow that looked reasonably sensible.

  Martin decided upon a more direct approach.

  “Do you know what a mouse eats?” he said.

  The cow’s chain rattled as the big animal stretched out her muzzle to sniff at the kitten. She blew a snort of sweet, warm cow breath at him.

  “Grass is nice,” she said.

  “For a mouse?”

  “For cows,” she said.

  “Yes, yes,” said Martin, “but do you know what a mouse eats?”

  The cow appeared to be thinking deeply. She rolled her eyes and fluttered her long pale eyelashes.

  “Look at it this way,” she said after a while. “All cows are animals. Right?”

  “Right.”

  “And all cows eat grass.”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, then. All mice are animals, so it follows that all mice eat grass.”

  “But that doesn’t make sense,” Martin said. “All cats are animals, but all cats don’t eat grass.”

  “No,” said the cow. “All cats eat mice.”

  “I don’t,” said Martin.

  “That doesn’t make sense either,” said the cow. “You must be stupid.” And she turned her head away and began a conversation with her neighbor.

  —

  Martin sighed. I’ll ask a pig, he thought. He knew—because Dulcie Maude had told the kittens—that of all the farmyard animals, the pig is by far the cleverest. He made his way down to the pigsties.

  He jumped up onto the wall of the first sty and looked down. Beneath him lay a large boar. He was fast asleep and snoring, his mouth partly open. Martin noted the size of his tusks and judged that he had better mind his p’s and q’s. For all he knew, pigs ate cats. Flattery would do no harm, he thought, so he gave a little cough and, when the boar opened an eye, said in a buttery voice, “My mother tells me that of all the farmyard animals, the pig is by far the cleverest.”

  The boar levered himself to his feet.

  “Indubitably,” he said.

  Martin did not know the meaning of this long word, but it seemed that the pig was not displeased, so he pressed on.

  “So I’m sure you’ll be able to tell me,” he said, “what mice eat. I asked a sheep and I asked a cow, but neither of them knew.”

  “Predictably,” said the boar. “The intelligence quoti
ent of the average herbivore is abysmal. Carnivores, such as yourself, are a little better endowed, but in general it is the omnivores whose intellectual abilities are preeminent. Among the omnivorous creatures we find the humble mouse—possibly the exception that proves the rule—but far superior to all others are the pig and man. In that order.”

  The boar paused for breath.

  Martin, half drowned in the sea of words, sat silent and bemused for a moment. Then he said, “But I still don’t see what mice eat.”

  The boar gave a loud grunt.

  “To say that you are stupid,” he said, “would be the understatement of all time.” And he lay down again and shut his eyes.

  There’s only one thing for it, thought Martin. I’ll have to go back and ask my little mouse what mice eat. I can’t waste any more time. She’ll be very hungry by now.

  He jumped off the pigsty wall and set off for the cart-shed. On the way he saw the farmer’s daughter in the distance, and seeing her made him think of her rabbits. Dulcie Maude had said nothing to the kittens about the intelligence of rabbits, but perhaps it might be worth asking them. He jumped over the garden wall and ran down to the rabbit hutches. Three pairs of pink eyes stared blankly out at him. They don’t look terribly clever, Martin thought. I shall speak clearly and slowly to them.

  “What…do…mice…eat?” he said.

  “Stick around,” said the rabbits sourly, “and you’ll soon see.”

  Martin stuck around, and before long a mouse appeared from nowhere, climbed the leg of the wooden trestle on which the hutches stood, popped in through the wire front of one of them, shoved its nose into the feeding bowl, and proceeded to gobble away with gusto.

  “Oh, great!” cried Martin. “Mice eat rabbit food!”

  “If you think that’s great,” said the rabbits (and they in their turn spoke clearly and slowly), “you…must…be…stupid.”

  3

  What a jolly name!