Toad Triumphant by William Horwood

Author:William Horwood [Horwood, William]
Language: eng
Format: epub, mobi
ISBN: 0312183046
Publisher: HarperCollins
Published: 1995-04-27T15:09:23+00:00

“We shall call in here and see what we can learn about this Lathbury Pike,” said the Rat, which is what the Mole feared he might say. If it had been up to him, the Mole would have given the evil-looking place a wide berth and proceeded on his way.

“I shall take my cudgel,” said the Mole, “for I do not like the look of this hostelry one bit —”

“No need for that, Mole, we do not wish to cause offence, or provoke those who live here,” said the Rat, before adding sensibly “but we’ll moor the boats on the far side of the bridge out of harm’s way where we can easily keep an eye on them, and get back to them in a hurry if we must.”

The Tavern’s old door creaked open at their push to reveal a small dark vestibule off which three doors led. Upon the one straight ahead was a notice written in a rough hand which read, “STRIKTLY PRIVATE, SO STAY OUT”; a second, to their left, had another notice which read “NOT THIS WAY”; so they took the third.

It opened onto a large stone-flagged room, dark and chillsome, in which a good many figures were gathered together, some morosely lounging against a long bar, tankard in hand, others huddled together on benches at rough tables, drinking beer and eating a mess of bread and pottage, and talking in low voices.

At their entrance all conversation ceased — and a silence fell upon the company as they turned and stared at the two intruders. They saw that each member of this unfriendly company was a very rough-looking representative of one of two species of animal that the Rat and the Mole did not much like: weasels and stoats. The weasels being, in the main, the solitary loungers; and the stoats, for the most part, the huddled eaters. Some were big, some small, some fat and some thin: not one displayed anything other than unpleasant curiosity.

“Food’s off,” growled a voice behind the bar, and they turned to see a tall cadaverous gentleman who was evidently the landlord.

“‘Cept fer ‘taters,” screeched his wife’s voice from somewhere upstairs and within. “So sell ‘em yesterday’s.”

“Well —” began the Mole.

The landlord chose to take the Mole’s hesitation for a firm order and, peering up some stairs, shouted, “Twice double portions, ducks.”

Then he turned to them and put a restless hand upon a mahogany pump handle, not unlike a policeman’s truncheon, and said, “Nah, fer drinks. Wot yer want?”

“I was thinking,” said the Rat speaking as low as he could, for the silence of the Tavern had continued and all were listening to their every syllable, “of a traditional ale of the kind advertised outside.”

“Were yer now?” said the landlord, studying them with seeming distaste.

“What kind of ale would that be?” persisted the Rat.

“There’s three,” said the landlord, “and they’re all brewed on the premises. There’s Policeman’s Punch, if yer wanna few There’s Bishop’s Blasphemy if yer like that kind of thing.

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