The Donkey Rustlers

CHAPTER 9 Payment

After lunch the children went down to have their last council of war with Yani.

“I really think,” said David as they made their way through the olive groves, “that we should tick Coocos off.”

“You will do no such thing,” said Amanda indignantly. “After all, he was only trying to help.”

“Yes, but he could have ruined everything if Father had put his foot down,” David pointed out.

“You are not to say anything to him,” said Amanda firmly. “How would you like to go through life wanting to talk and nobody letting you?”

“All right,” said David resignedly, “but that is just the sort of thing that makes first-class plans come unstuck.”

When they told Yani, he was as horrified as they had been, but he, too, sided with Amanda and agreed that they should say nothing to Coocos about the matter.

“Now,” said Amanda briskly, “it’s merely a question of claiming the reward. I suggest this evening would be a suitable time to discover the donkeys.”

“Now, let’s get this quite clear,” said David. “Yani must not be implicated in discovering the donkeys. If he is, the Mayor will know that he took part in pinching them. It’s got to be done by us.”

“All right,” said Amanda. “We’ll swim across to Hesperides about four o’clock and discover them on the island. Surprise! Surprise!”

“Yes,” said David, “because by the time we get back to the village with the news everyone will have had their siestas.”

“I wonder what their reactions are going to be?” mused Amanda.

“They’ll be grateful beyond belief,” said Yani, chuckling. “I don’t think they ever realised before how much they needed their donkeys.”

“It’s very unlikely that the Mayor is going to have twenty thousand drachma in his house,” observed David shrewdly, “which means that be will have to go into Melissa for it, which means that we really can’t get the reward until tomorrow.”

“Well, that’s all right,” said Amanda. “It doesn’t matter whether we get it to-day or to-morrow.”

“No. But if he sleeps on it,” David pointed out, “he might change his mind.”

“Well, he can’t go into Melissa this evening,” said Yani, “because the bank will be closed.”

David frowned and sighed.

“Yes. I can’t see any other way of doing it,” he said. “We’ll just have to risk it.”

So that afternoon Yani and Coocos made it patently obvious to those villagers they met that they were going to have a siesta and, as it grew towards four o’clock, Amanda and David swam out through the warm blue water to Hesperides.

“You must admit,” said Amanda, shaking her wet hair and surveying the donkeys and the Mayor’s little horse, “that they look worlds better for their rest.”

“Yes, they do,” agreed David. “In fact, I think it would be a good idea if this happened to them once a year.”

“What, you mean that they were brought out to Hesperides?” asked Amanda.

“Yes,” said David, “a sort of holiday camp for donkeys.”

“It would be a good idea,” said Amanda, musingly, “but I doubt whether we could get the villagers to adopt it.”

“Well,” said David, “the thing for you to do is to swim back and rush up to the village. Round about now the Mayor will be awake and having his first cup of coffee and everyone else will be around too. Remember to make it as dramatic as you can, and don’t for heaven’s sake giggle.”

“I never giggle,” said Amanda austerely.

“You do, you giggle incessantly.”

“I don’t giggle,” said Amanda. “I laugh.”

“Well, whatever it is you do, don’t do it,” said David.

So, after patting the furry rumps of the donkeys, Amanda ran down the stone steps from the church and plunged once more into the water. In order to give an air of authenticity to her part, she ran up the hill so that by the time she arrived in the village square, she was panting and exhausted.

As they had anticipated, Mayor Oizus, Papa Nikos and many other members of the village had just come from their siestas and had gathered round the tables at the café to discuss the burning question — when they would get information from the Communists as to the whereabouts of their donkeys. They were having a long and very complicated argument as to whether Communists could read or not when Amanda, perspiring profusely, came running into the village square.

“Mayor Oizus, Mayor Oizus,” she gasped, “we’ve found them.” She flung herself panting and exhausted into the Mayor’s lap.

“Found what, my golden one?” inquired the Mayor, startled.

It was obvious, however, from Amanda’s incoherence that she was in no condition to answer him, so they plied her with glasses of wine and patted her back and made reassuring noises until she had regained her breath.

“The donkeys,” gulped Amanda at last. “We’ve found them.”

The effect of this statement was electric. The Mayor rose to his feet spilling Amanda on to the floor and knocking over the table which held twelve ouzos and five cups of coffee.

“What?” he asked of the prostrate Amanda. “You have found them?”

“Where? Where?” shouted Papa Nikos.

“Where have you found them?”

“Tell us, tell us quickly,” said Papa Yorgo.

Amanda, who liked to have her dramatic effects just as the villagers did, rose to her feet and leaned tragically on the upturned table.

“We have found them,” she repeated with a sob in her voice.

“They have been found!” shouted the Mayor. “The donkeys have been found!”

Immediately the word was shouted from house to house and as if by magic the little square filled with villagers, all clamouring to know the truth.

“Where are they? Where are they?” asked Papa Nikos. Amanda drew a long shuddering breath and lifted up her head nobly.

“David and I,” she said in a trembling voice, “went for a swim this afternoon. We swam out to Hesperides. I think you all know it?”

There was a mutter of acknowledgment from the villagers, hastily stilled so that they would not miss a word of her story.

“We climbed up the steps to the little terrace by the church,” Amanda continued, dragging out the story as long as she could.

“Yes, yes,” said the villagers, “we know it, we know it.”

“And there,” said Amanda dramatically, “to our astonishment, we found all the donkeys and the Mayor’s little horse.”

“Saint Polycarpos preserve us,” shouted the Mayor. “It is a miracle.”

“Were there any Communists with them?” asked Papa Yorgo.

“No,” said Amanda. “No Communists and it seems as though they have been well looked after.”

“God be praised,” exclaimed Papa Nikos. “If you two golden ones had run into the band of Communists, there is no knowing what they would have done to you.”

“But we ought to go and fetch them,” said the Mayor. “Fetch them quickly before the Communists return.”

“Oh, don’t worry,” said Amanda, “I’ve left David there. He’ll make sure that nothing happens.”

“The quicker we have them back the better,” said Papa Nikos.

“Down to the boats!” cried Papa Yorgo. “Down to the boats to row across and fetch them!”

So the villagers of Kalanero, led by Amanda, ran and scrambled and tripped and fell down the stony hillside to the tiny port of Kalanero where the small fishing boats were anchored; it lay not far along the coast from Hesperides.

Here, complete pandemonium ensued; people got their anchor chains entwined, hit each other by accident with oars and, to Amanda’s delight, the Mayor stepped into a boat that was just pushing off and fell into the shallow water. But eventually all the little fishing boats, overloaded with eager villagers, were plying their way across the blue waters towards Hesperides. David, watching them approach the island, was vividly reminded of some pleasure boats that he had seen once at Swanage, bulging with holiday-makers being taken for a trip round the bay. The first boat to grind to a standstill on the shores of Hesperides was the one containing the extremely wet Mayor, and the others were not long in following. The villagers leaped ashore and ran up the steps where they paused dramatically to utter shouts of joy at the sight of their line of donkeys and the Mayor’s little horse, all munching placidly.

“My little horse, my little horse,” wailed the Mayor, tears running down his cheeks.

He took the unprecedented step of actually throwing his arms round the neck of his biggest donkey and kissing it on the nose. Even Kouzos, who was not noted for his kindness to animals, was observed patting his donkeys surreptitiously, with a broad grin of pleasure on his face.

“But how did the Communists get them over here? asked Papa Nikos when the excitement had died down a bit. “They must have had a huge vessel to carry all these animals.”

“Oh, I shouldn’t think so,” said Amanda. “I should imagine that they swam them over.”

“Can donkeys swim?” asked Papa Nikos.

Amanda kept a straight face with difficulty.

“Ask the Mayor,” she replied.

“Yes, yes,” said the Mayor, “they can swim. The day when I fell off the bridge and these brave children saved me, my donkey was swimming like a fish.”

“I suggest that you take them back the same way,” said Amanda.

So the villagers, with infinite care, led their donkeys down the steps from the little church to the shore of Hesperides. But the holiday had obviously done the donkeys and the little horse too much good. They were even more reluctant to enter the water than they had been with the children, with the result that the beach resembled an uncontrolled rodeo, with villagers pushing and tugging and struggling to get their donkeys into the water.

Mayor Oizus was kicked in the stomach by his little horse quite early in the proceedings and had to go and lie under a cypress tree to recover, leaving the job of getting his beasts of burden into the sea to Amanda and David. Eventually, however, the flotilla of little boats, with the line of reluctant donkeys swimming behind, rowed back to the mainland, where the rest of the villagers were assembled on the jetty and gave them the sort of ovation that is normally reserved for the maiden voyage of a large ocean-going liner. Everybody had to pat and touch the donkeys, everybody exclaimed on what a miracle it was they had been discovered and how clever Amanda and David had been. Finally, exhausted, they reached the village square where the Mayor, in a fit of unprecedented generosity, sent for a bottle of his own wine so that he could toast Amanda and David. Solemnly the two children were toasted, then as they drank, cries of “Bravo,” “Beautiful children,” “Golden ones,” and similar shouts of endearment came from the villagers.

“You won’t forget the reward, will you, Mayor Oizus?” asked Amanda demurely, putting her empty glass on the table. The Mayor, who had been wreathed in smiles, started and almost dropped his glass.

“Reward?” he said. “Reward?”

“You know,” said David, “what you have written on the posters. The reward of twenty thousand drachma.”

“Ah, that,” said the Mayor. “Ah — um — yes, but that was to get the Communists to show their hand. It was, as you might call it, a ruse.”

“I told you so,” whispered David to Amanda.

“But Mayor Oizus,” said Amanda firmly, “it says quite clearly on the posters that you will pay twenty thousand drachma to anybody who told you of the whereabouts of your donkeys. We not only told you of their whereabouts, but we showed you. So, therefore, we are entitled to the reward.”

“But, my sweet ones,” said the Mayor, starting to perspire. “it was all a joke.”

“It was not a joke,” said Papa Nikos grimly, “and you know it.”

“Yes, yes,” said Papa Yorgo, “it was not a joke.”

“You offered to pay the reward,” said Papa Nikos, “and so you must pay it. These children have earned it.”

“Yes, they have indeed. They have indeed,” chorused the villagers.

“Well,” said the Mayor in desperation, “if that’s a unanimous decision, I suppose I’ll have to, but I haven’t got the money with me here. I shall have to go into Melissa and fetch it.”

“That’s all right,” said Amanda sweetly. “We’ll come and collect it to-morrow afternoon at four o’clock.”

“Yes, yes,” echoed the villagers, “at four o’clock.”

“At four o’clock,” agreed the Mayor dismally.

So the children, having been patted and hugged and kissed by the grateful villagers of Kalanero, made their way back to the villa.

“Well,” asked the General when they appeared on the terrace, “how did it go?”

“It was splendid,” said Amanda. “I wish you could have seen the Mayor fall into the water, it was even funnier than seeing him fall off the bridge.”

“Yes, I missed that,” said David gloomily.

“And then,” Amanda said, “they were so excited at getting their donkeys back that the Mayor actually kissed his.”

“If people took more time in life to kiss donkeys,” observed the General, “the world would be a better place.”

“They had a terrible time trying to get the donkeys to swim back,” said David. “and the Mayor’s little horse kicked him in the stomach.”

“A retribution long overdue,” said the General with satisfaction.

“We got them all back,” said David, “then we asked the Mayor about the reward.”

“Ah,” said the General, “and what did he say?”

“Oh, he tried to pretend it was all a joke,” said Amanda indignantly.

“I told you he would,” said David. “I wouldn’t trust that man for anything.”

“Fortunately,” said Amanda, “the villagers all backed us up and said we had earned the reward, so eventually the Mayor had to give in. We are going down to collect it tomorrow at four o’clock.”

“Masterly,” said the General with satisfaction. “Quite masterly.”

“I am surprised at your approving of this,” said Amanda.

“Why should I disapprove?” inquired the General. “It was a well-conceived plan, carefully carried out; it hurt nobody and it is going to do Yani a lot of good. I see absolutely no reason why I shouldn’t approve of it.”

Amanda shrugged; the General’s thought processes had always been and would always remain an enigma to his daughter.

“I shall come down myself,” said the General, “and I shall bring your mother, too.”

“Where to, Henry?” inquired Mrs Finchberry-White, who had just appeared in a dazed sort of fashion on the terrace.

“Down to the village to watch Amanda and David getting their reward,” said the General.

“Reward?” said Mrs Finchberry-White. “Reward for what?”

“I spent the entire morning,” said the General irritably, “telling you on my leg drum, and I refuse to go over the whole thing again.”

“It’s just that the villagers lost their donkeys,” explained Amanda hastily, “and we found them and so we can claim the reward that they offered for them.”

“How very nice, dear,” said Mrs Finchberry-White. “Have you seen that tiny little green orchid that grows down in the trees there? I’ve a very strong feeling that it isn’t in my collection.”

The following morning the Mayor on his little horse trotted along the dusty road to Melissa and, though it seared his soul to do so, he drew twenty thousand drachma out of his account at the bank, counted it carefully and stowed it away in his wallet. Then he trotted sadly back to Kalanero.

At four o’clock there was not a single inhabitant of Kalanero (who was not too old or too young to be present) who was not assembled in the village square to watch the giving of the reward. The pleasure it gave the villagers was twofold. Firstly, because Amanda and David were such favourites in the village and secondly because the villagers were enchanted at the thought of the Mayor having to part with twenty thousand drachma. Major-General Finchberry-White and his wife walked down and stood on the outskirts of the crowd in the square and Amanda and David made their way forward to the café where the Mayor was seated behind a table covered, for this special occasion, with a white cloth, The Mayor, since he realised he was going to have to part with his money, decided to put the best possible face on things. And so, as Amanda and David came to a halt in front of the table, he rose to his feet and made a little speech.

“People of Kalanero,” he said oratorically. “It has long been the reputation of Melissa and in particular of the village of Kalanero, that they have always been eager to have strangers living in their midst and have been hospitable to them.”

“Quite right,” muttered Papa Yorgo.

“When these golden ones first came to live with us,” the Mayor continued, “we took them instantly to our hearts. Brave, noble and modest aristocrats.”

A mutter of assent ran through the village square.

“During the time they have been here,” said the Mayor, “they have done many wonderful deeds for us, the people of Kalanero, not least among these being the saving of my life when the bridge collapsed under me.”

He paused and drank a glass of water.

“Now,” he continued, throwing out his arms dramatically, “they have, through their astuteness and courage, saved the entire village of Kalanero by recovering for us our donkeys and my little horse.”

“I do wish he would shut up,” said David, who was getting increasingly embarrassed.

“Poor man, let him have his fun,” whispered Amanda.

“As you all know,” said the Mayor. “I offered a reward for the recovery of the donkeys and being a man of my word, I intend to give that reward now to these two wonderful children.”

With a flourish he pulled his wallet out of his pocket and proceeded with great care to count out two piles of hundred-drachma notes. You could hear every villager counting with the Mayor as he put the notes down. He slapped the final note on the table and threw his arms out.

“Twenty thousand drachma,” he cried in a shaking voice. “Twenty thousand drachma which I am paying for the recovery of our donkeys by the two foreigners in Melissa that we love most.”

The cheers of the crowd were deafening.

“Go on,” muttered David, “you pick up the money.”

“No, you do it,” said Amanda. who was feeling as guilty as David.

“Well, let’s do it together,” said David as a compromise. So they both stepped forward and each picked up their pile of ten thousand drachma. Instantly silence settled on the little square and it was obvious that the villagers expected the children to reply in some way to the Mayor’s speech. Amanda glanced at David, but he was red-faced and tongue-tied, so Amanda cleared her throat and began.

“People of Kalanero,” she said. “To-day we have been greatly honoured by Mayor Oizus inasmuch as he is paying us the reward for the discovery of your donkeys. Now, we know that there are many of you here who are poor, who are much poorer than us, for example, and so I and my brother feel that it would be unfair to take this money.”

The Mayor started at this and a faint feeling of hope crept over him.

“So, my brother and I,” Amanda continued, “have discussed what would be the best thing to do. You know that all the people of Kalanero are our friends, but one of our particular friends is Yani Panioti.”

She beckoned to Yani, who was in the crowd, and he came forward and joined the children by the table.

“As you know,” said Amanda, “Yani’s father died last year and unfortunately he died in debt.”

“Yes, yes,” murmured the villagers, “we know that.”

“So my brother and I,” said Amanda, “have decided to give this money to Yani so that he may repay his father’s debts.”

The cries of “Bravo,” “What generosity,” and other similar statements were overwhelming. Amanda and David solemnly handed the money over to Yani. Yani, with tears in his eyes, kissed David on both cheeks and to the delight of the villagers he kissed Amanda full on the mouth. Then he turned to the Mayor.

“Mayor Oizus,” he said, “here is the eighteen thousand drachma that my father owed you. The entire village is witness to the fact that I am now paying up his debt in full.”

He placed the sheaf of notes carefully in front of the Mayor. Again the shouts of “Bravo” were deafening, but the Mayor, instead of being pleased at having most of his money returned to him, appeared to be undergoing a strange change. His normally pale, cheese-coloured face had suddenly become suffused with blood and his eyes bulged.

“You did it,” he shouted, suddenly getting to his feet and pointing a shaking finger at Amanda, David and Yani.

“You did it.”

The villagers fell silent. This was a new twist to the plot which they had not anticipated.

“They took the donkeys,” shouted the Mayor, almost apoplectic with rage. “They took the donkeys so that they could claim the reward so that they could give it to Yani Panioti and deprive me of my legal right to his land. They are the “Communists” that we have all been searching for.”

The villagers, round-eyed, looked at the children. It took a moment or so for the Mayor’s words to penetrate, but when they did, and the villagers grasped their implication, the whole gorgeousness of the situation dawned upon them. The Mayor had been treated ignominiously, had been forced to part with twenty thousand drachma, and Yani Panioti had been saved, and all by the cleverness of their English children. It was Papa Nikos who started it, for as soon as the full beauty of the situation dawned on him, he uttered a bellow of laughter that could have been heard half a mile away. Any other crowd would have been indignant at what the children had done, but these were Melissiots and they thought differently. All the villagers started to laugh and they laughed and laughed and laughed. The Mayor shouted and raved for a time, and then gave up in despair because he could not make himself heard for the great waves of laughter.

And so the three children, with something very much approaching a swagger, made their way through the village square, through the villagers, some of whom were laughing so much that they could hardly stand, and wended their way up to the villa.