Castaways of the Flying Dutchman

Shaking her broom at the rhododendrons, Mrs. Winn called out. "Don't be so silly, go away and leave us alone,

you naughty children. Have you nothing better to do?"

Derisive laughter hooted out from behind the bushes. "There's her black cat, all witches have got a black cat!"

Dipping her mop in the bucket of soapy water, Mrs. Winn began cleaning mud smears from her neat green door

with its polished brass knocker and letter box, crying out as she did, "II you don't go away, I'll fetch a policeman!"

"Haha, fetch the bobbies. We don't care, old pruneface!"

Wearily the old woman carried her cleaning stuff down to the front lawn. Flicking the bloated toad carcass from

the sill, she started in mopping the filth from the parlor windowpanes.

Again a voice challenged her.

"Hurry up, Winnie, fly off and bring the bobby, hah. Fat lot of good that'll do you!"

She knew they were right. Her tormentors would leave the moment she made a move for the police, but once

the constable had come and gone, they would return to renew the persecution. It was an all-too-familiar pattern during

the last months. Her house was isolated, standing alone on the far hill slope outside the village. She had no neighbors

to call upon for help. Clamping her jaw resolutely, she grabbed her pail of soapy water and hurled it at the bushes. It

fell short, splashing on the lawn. This caused great hilarity from the gang in hiding. They rattled the bushes until

several clumps of rhododendron blossoms fell to the ground.

"Hahaha! Silly old witch, you missed! Witchie, witchie!"

Horatio's tail swirled around the doorjamb. He stalked smoothly back into the house. Mrs. Winn watched him

go. She swayed slightly in the hot afternoon sun, wiping a bent wrist across her forehead, then, gathering up her

cleaning implements, she trekked wearily in after the cat. As she closed the front door, a fresh battery of rubbish

rattled against the panels outside.

"Winn, Winn, Winnie the Witch! Hahahahaha!"

Striving to ignore the children, she boiled a kettle and made tea, pouring some into a saucer and adding extra

milk for the cat. Horatio liked the drink of milky tea. She stroked the back of his head as he bent to lap it up.

"They won't leave us alone, Horatio. If it's not those youngsters, then it's Obadiah Smithers with his legal

notices, trying to get me out. Oh dear, Horatio, only one week left after today. Those lawyers from London will be

here to enforce the clearance notices—I could lose my house! Unbelievable! And the village, oh, Horatio, the poor

village."

Horatio licked a paw and wiped it carefully over one ear, staring solemnly at her, as if expecting an answer to

the problem. However, it never came. Mrs. Winn sat looking at her work-worn hands, a tidy, plump little old lady,

with silver hair swept into a bun, her slippered feet scarcely touching the rustic, tiled floor from the chair she sat in.

Outside the golden afternoon rolled by, punctuated by the guffaws and mocking comments from behind the

rhododendrons. Mrs. Winn toyed absently with her thin, gold wedding band, turning it upon her finger. From out in

the mosaic-tiled hallway, flat chimes from a walnut-cased grandfather clock announced the arrival of half past three.

A shaft of sunlight from the kitchen window, which illuminated the old woman's chair, had shifted slightly, leaving

her face in the shade. Her half-filled teacup stood on the table in its Crown Derby saucer, a wedding present from her

favorite aunt. The tea had grown cold.

She closed her eyes, trying to shut out the din from outside. It was no use, an afternoon nap was out of the

question. Horatio prowled about for a while, choosing finally to settle at her feet. Mrs Winn was seldom prone to

feeling sorry for herself, but now she dabbed away a threatening tear with her apron corner. Clenching a fist in a

sudden show of temper, she spoke to her cat. "Ooh! If only somebody would happen along and teach those wretches

outside a lesson! ... If only ..."

Then she sat staring at the white-and-blue flower-patterned tiles around her kitchen sink. Some summer after-

noons could be very lonely for an old widow and her cat.

13.

BEN AND NED WERE WALKING ALONG TO-gether, still discussing the merits and drawbacks of barns. In

the absence of anything better, the dog was warming to the idea. "I like lots of nice deep straw in a barn. Good fun,

straw is. You can roll about in it and jump off bales."

Ben smiled mischievously as he answered his dog's thought. "Huh, you can brush your own self off tomorrow if

you're planning on rolling about in straw all night. I'm not your kennel maid."

The Labrador looked indignant. "Never said y'were, and by the way, when did I last roll about in a barnful of

straw, eh?" Ben mused a moment before answering. "Er, April the ninth, 1865, if I remember rightly. The day Robert

E. Lee surrendered to Grant. We were in a barn somewhere outside Kansas City."

"Oh yes, you jumped on my head, I remember that much!"

"Had to jump on your fat head. Otherwise you'd have kicked off doing your barking exercises and betrayed us

to those renegades. Don't forget, Ned, I saved you from becoming a dogskin saddlebag."

The Labrador sniffed airily. "Thank you kindly, young sir, but this isn't the American Civil War. 'Tis nought but

a sleepy English backwater village. I'll bark to my heart's content. Got to exercise the old bark now and again, y'know.

Never can tell when it'll come in useful!"

Ben halted. "Quiet, Ned, d'you hear that? Sounds like shouting?"

The dog's keen ears raised. "It is shouting. 'Winnie the Witch with the crinkly face, come on out and give us a

chase.' Might be some type of quaint local custom, eh, Ben?"

As they rounded a tree-fringed bend, Ben caught sight of the big, old, redbrick house, standing alone on the

hillside.

"What did Alex say that gang's name was, Ned?"

"Er, the Grange Gang, I think. Why?"

"I think we may have found them. Come on, let's go and take a quiet peep at what's going on."

There were ten of them altogether, led by Wilf Smithers and his cousin Regina Woodworthy. Wilf kept the

others busy searching for more ammunition to throw, whilst he and Regina stood by, shaking the rhododendron

bushes. A fat boy with piggy eyes, who had been searching the garden, came creeping back through the shrubbery. He

was carrying a double handful of rotten vegetation.

Wilf pulled a face, turning away from the stench that emanated from the mess. "Phwaw! That doesn't half stink.

Where'd you get it, Tommo?"

The fat boy threw the stuff awkwardly. It landed short of the house, splattering on the front steps. He snickered

with glee, wiping his hands upon the grass. " 'Round the back there, Wilf. Winnie the Witch has a big compost heap

piled up against the wall!" He watched Wilf's tough, sun-reddened face for signs of approval.

The leader of the Grange Gang ignored his minion and gave orders to the others. "You lot get 'round to that

compost heap and fetch a load back here. We'll make the witch's house smell like a sewer before we're finished. Bring

as much as you can!"

Ben and his dog had been eavesdropping from the other side of the garden wall. Ned's hackles rose. "Witch

hunters persecuting some poor old lady! Grr, stupid ignorant louts, I can't abide them!"

Ben was of the same mind. "There's always bullies to pick on somebody who can't defend themselves, Ned.

Let's go and upset them a bit."

The Labrador shook his head. "If we're staying 'round here awhile, it won't do for you to invite trouble right off.

Leave this to me, pal!"

Ben cautioned his friend. "Don't go causing them any real damage, Ned. This isn't the Battle of Trafalgar, you

know."

Ned's face was the picture of injured doggy innocence. "Who, me? What possible harm could a gentle, ancient

pooch do to a gang of great, tough teenagers?"

Thinking back to past adventures, Ben was about to remind Ned of several incidents. But when he looked

around, the Labrador had vanished like a black shadow.

The gang were taking their time gathering garbage from the compost pile—rotting apples, carrot tops, withered

cabbages. Wilf's deputy, Regina, crouched impatiently behind the bushes. "What's the matter with 'em, Wilf, have

they gone asleep 'round there?"

Wilf was facing away from her, peering across the garden. "I'll kick that Tommo's behind if he doesn't move

himself!"

Something heavy hit Regina's back and knocked her flat. She turned over and found herself facing a giant mad

dog! It was black as night, showing gleaming white fangs as its lips twitched hungrily. Dark eyes glittering, fur

standing up on its spine, it stood snarling, ready to attack.

Regina managed to stammer. "W-W-Wilf, there's a d-d-dog!"

She need not have spoken, the beast already had Wilf's undivided attention. The boy took one pace back and fell

flat on his behind. The dog turned to face him, froth showing in its jaws.

"Grrrrr gurrrr, wooooof!"

The thunderous bark galvanized them both into instant motion. Scrambling upright, Regina ran for it, banging

into Wilf and smacking his head against the sandstone garden wall. "Owwooof! Yaaaaagh!"

Ned had the way out blocked. Wilf and Regina both fled toward the compost heap, which, being piled high

against the wall, offered the only quick way out of the garden. The big black Labrador pursued them, snarling and

growling viciously. The rest of the gang took one look at the savage hound and tried to make good their escape.

However, the soft, ripe compost couldn't bear their joint weight, and Wilf, Regina, and their cohorts found themselves

sinking into the odious squelching mire, shrieking and grabbing at one another. As he barked and bayed like a mad

wolf, Ned allowed a little slather of froth to wreathe his jaws, though inside he was giggling like a puppy. The fleeing

Grange members fell over one another, kicking and fighting to be first over the wall, faces, hands, elbows, and legs

covered with the stinking mass of decayed vegetation.

Standing outside, Ben saw the first few fling themselves from the walltop, thudding painfully onto the dusty

path. Before they could rise, more yowling muddy apparitions landed on them. It was utter bedlam! Ben pulled a

disgusted face at the smell hanging on the air, then he turned away, carelessly whistling an old sea shanty, his untidy

blond shock of hair bobbing as he entered the garden jauntily.

Ned came bounding up, his teeth bared in a huge doggy grin. "Now you know why my barking practice is

important. Did you hear me, Ben, I made more din than a pack of beagles. Pretty good going, I'd say!"

"Excellent! You did very well for an ancient hound. Bet they cover a mile or two before they stop running.

What's this? Look, Ned, there's an old lady coming out of the house."

Mrs. Winn had a walking stick in her hand in case of trouble, and she stopped several yards from them. Her

voice had a sharp note to it as she looked them over. "You don't look like one of those hooligans. What are you doing

here? Is that dog yours?"

Ned sat still and did some friendly dog-panting exercises, which he rated as important as barking practice.

Ben flicked the hair from his eyes with a swift nod and smiled disarmingly. "Afternoon, marm. We didn't mean

to trespass, but we thought that gang was annoying you. Not nice that, annoying folk."

Mrs. Winn peered closer at the strange, polite boy. His white canvas pants and crewneck sweater, together with

what appeared to be a cut-down naval jacket, gave him the look of a seaman, freshly arrived ashore.

Behind his smile she could sense calm; however, it was mainly the boy's blue eyes that caught her

attention—they seemed ageless, misty blue, like the summer horizon of a far sea.

She blinked, beckoning the two forward with her stick. "Does that dog attack cats?"

The Labrador shot out an indignant thought. "Attack cats, me? Is the old dear mad? I love the furry little things,

as long as they keep their claws to themselves. Huh, attack cats!"

Ben patted his dog fondly. "Ned's just fine with cats, marm. He's friendly, too. Give the lady your paw, Ned!"

Mrs. Winn held out her hand, and Ned dutifully presented a paw.

Obviously impressed, the old lady stroked Ned's sleek coat. "Oh, you're a good dog, Ned, good dog!"

Ned gave her the benefit of his soulful gaze. "Thank you, marm, and you're a nice lady, nice lady!"

She turned to the strange boy. "So, what's your name?"

"Ben, marm, just call me Ben."

She offered her hand. Ben shook it gently, and she winked at him. "My name's Winifred Winn, but you can call

me Winnie, and stop 'marming' me. You sound like my husband used to. 'Marm' this and 'marm' that. Well, Ben, I

suppose you like apple pie and lemonade, and I'll bet Ned wouldn't mind a dish of water and a beef bone with lots of

marrow and fat to it."

"Ooh, ooh! I could grow to love this old lady dearly!"

Ben bypassed the dog's compliment. "That'd be very nice, ma . . . er, Winnie, thank you."

She ushered them both inside. "It's the least I can do to thank you for driving those wretches away from the

house. The trouble they've caused me! And the whole village. But enough of that, you've probably got troubles of

your own. Come on, you two, we'll use the parlor. It's not often I have visitors."

14.

BEN SAT AT A SPINDLE-LEGGED COFFEE table in the parlor, tucking into a sizable wedge of Mrs. Winn's

apple pie, with fresh cream poured over it. There was a tall glass of homemade lemonade with it. Ned had retired to

the kitchen for his beef bone and water, where Mrs. Winn also gave him a piece of shortbread pastry. Horatio arched

his back and leapt onto a table, until the big dog passed him reassuring thoughts. The cat did not reply, but after a

while began purring and came down to rub itself against Ned's leg. Mrs. Winn smiled approvingly as she came out to

fetch the rest of her apple pie and cream. Returning to the parlor, she set it down in front of her guest.

"Boys always like apple pie; help yourself, son, you look as if you could use some more. Go on, don't be shy!"

Ben took another generous slice. "Thanks . . . Winnie, we haven't had much to eat since yesterday morning."

As he ate, the blue-eyed boy studied the portrait over the mantelpiece. "Is that your husband's picture? Anchor

Line cap'n, eh?"

Mrs. Winn stared curiously at him. "Not many lads your age would know that the Royal Navy is called the

Anchor Line. Are you a seafarer, Ben?"

The boy took a thoughtful sip of lemonade. "Not really. I've knocked about on barges and coasters as a galley

lad. You hear things about the sea . . . it's always interested me. I've read quite a lot of sea stories, too."

The boy did not like lying to the old woman, but he knew he could not tell her the truth. Who would believe that

he and Ned had sailed on the Flying Dutchman in the year 1620! It would strain any credibility to believe that boy and

dog were still alive and well, ageless, in the year 1896.

He caught Mrs. Winn staring at him intensely and turned away as she asked, "I won't tell anyone, Ben, where

are you really from?"

He shrugged. "I think I was born in Denmark, Copenhagen, but I'm not sure. Ned's from there, we've always

been together. We've lived in quite a few places ... here and there."

Mrs. Winn shook her head, perplexed. "I'll bet you have. Any parents, brothers or sisters?"

"Not that I know of, ma . . . Winnie. I was planning on staying in Chapelvale for a while, as soon as I can find

somewhere that allows dogs. I don't suppose you'd know of a place?"

Mrs. Winn suddenly felt sorry for her strange visitor. He looked so young, so alone. Concern showed in her

voice. "You mean that you haven't anywhere to stay?"

Ben nodded. "I've got money. I could pay for lodgings, and I'd see Ned didn't bother anybody."

The old lady sat watching the boy. The flat grandfather clock chimes rang out four-thirty. Ben had finished the

last morsel of apple pie when his dog came from the kitchen and lay down contentedly, his head resting on the hoy's

sculled boot. Fidgeting and fussing with her apron corner, Winnie looked up to the ornate molded ceiling, then down

to her husband's portrait, finally settling on Ben.

Something in her eyes told him she had reached a decision. Tapping her worn gold wedding ring against the

chair arm, Mrs. Winn pursed her lips. "You aren't in any kind of trouble, are you, my boy?"

Ben sat up straight. "Certainly not, Miz Winn!"

She touched his hand reassuringly. "I believe you. You said you were thinking of staying in Chapelvale for a

while. I suppose that means you'll be moving on one day. Hmm, you're a puzzle, Ben. There's more to you and your

dog than meets the eye, a lot more."

She cleared away the plates and glasses, watching the crestfallen lad out of the corner of her eye. "Shall we say

that you can stay here for a few days, then? I don't think those bullies will bother coming 'round to harass me if they

see Ned wandering in the garden."

Ben brightened up immediately. "Oh, thank you, marm! Ned'll keep them away and I'll help you 'round the

house and do your shopping for you, and I can pay for lodgings, too. I have money, you know...."

Mrs. Winn held up her hand, cutting Ben off frostily. "Please, I'm not rich, but I have enough to get by on with

Captain Winn's pension. I'm not beholden to anybody, and I don't need you to pay me—I'm allowing you to stay here

as a friend."

Ned passed a thought to his master. "What a nice old lady Winnie is. This place feels just like home, whatever

home's supposed to feel like. Don't forget to thank her for me. I've been trying to talk with that cat, Horatio, but he's

not got much to say for himself. It must be with his having no other creatures to speak to that he's lost the art of

conversation, poor fellow."

Ben answered the dog's thoughts. "Well, when you do finally get chatting together, see what you can find out

from him. It might give us a clue as to why we've been sent here."

Mrs. Winn tapped Ben's shoulder. "Are you listening to what I'm saying, young man?"

"What, oh, er, sorry, Miz Winn. I must have dozed off!"

The old lady chuckled. "Hmm, you looked as if you were ready to drop off there, sitting and staring at the dog. I

was just saying that you and Ned could take the rear upstairs bedroom. I sleep down here in the small sitting room

nowadays. My left leg's not too good, I need help getting upstairs. Perhaps you'd best go and take a nap. There's a nice

bathroom up there, too."

Ben rose gratefully. "Thank you, Miz Winn. Thanks for everything from both of us. I think I will take a bath

and a nap."

The old lady took Ben's hand. "Help me upstairs and I'll show you your room. I'll have dinner ready for you

both at seven. Come on, Ned, good boy!"

The Labrador looked questioningly at Ben. "I don't mind the nap, but a bath's out of the question. It's not half an

hour since I had a good scratch and lick!"

Ben tugged at the black Lab's tail as they went upstairs. "Miz Winn means me, not you!"

It was a comfortable room with a soft, old-fashioned bed. Ben picked up a framed sepia photograph from the

bedside table. A young man and woman with two small boys stood on a palm-fronded verandah. The boy studied it.

"Hmm, looks like India or Ceylon, some sort of plantation."

Mrs. Winn was mildly surprised at her strange guest's knowledge, yet looking at his wise blue eyes, it seemed

right somehow that he should know about the photograph. "Your second guess was correct, Ben. It's Ceylon. That's

my son Jim with his family—he manages a tea plantation for a British company out there. I've not yet seen his wife

Lilian, or the children. That photograph is all I have of them. Maybe someday they'll come over for a visit...."

Mrs. Winn suddenly looked very sad, and she sighed. "Still, maybe it would be better for me if they stayed in

Ceylon."

Ben became curious. "Why do you say that, Winnie?"

She shuffled slowly out of the room as she replied. "I'll tell you at dinner. Stay where you are, lad, I can manage

going downstairs on my own quite well."

After a good hot bath, Ben dressed in a clean change of clothing from his canvas bag and lay on the bed,

watching a shaft of late day sunlight on the floral wallpaper. Birdsong from the garden and the distant rumble of a

train sounded pleasant and comforting. He drifted off into a slumber, happy that Ned and he had found somewhere to

stay.

The dream stole unbidden into his sleep. Gale-force winds sweeping over a heaving deck, tattered sails framed

against a storm-ripped sky, great grey-green waves rushing across the raging main. He was clinging to the dog as they

were washed overboard through the shattered midship rails.

Water, water, the earth was awash in wild seawater, pounding in his ears, filling his nostrils, that odd faraway

sound of muffled breath escaping beneath the ocean's surface. Then spray churning white as he and the dog surfaced

in the vessel's wake. He tried to swim with one hand, whilst clinging to the dog's collar with the other, when he was

struck by a spar and his dream became cascades of colored lights, exploding from the darkness. A velvety calm

enveloped Ben as he floated off someplace in time and space. A gentle golden radiance filled his spirit when the

angel's voice called, soft as noon breeze in summer meadows.

"Rest here, stay awhile, help those in need of your gifts. Even in a place such as Chapelvale there are petty

tyrants and those whose hearts are ruled by greed. You and your dog must come to the aid of the good folk here. But,

hearken, at the sound of a single toll from a church bell, you must leave!" '

The message of the bell—a church bell this time—remained clear in Ben's mind, even as his dreams raced on,

over centuries, across seas, over mountains, through distant lands, wherever he and Ned had been sent to assist the op-

pressed in their struggle against villainy. He saw faces from the past, friends and enemies alike, felt the apprehension

of arrival, the joy of being part of so many communities and the sorrow of having to depart and leave them behind.

Always onward to fresh adventures, with his faithful, unchanging friend Ned. The last thing that trailed through his

dream was a vision of the Flying Dutchman, with Vanderdecken wild-eyed at the ship's wheel. Away, away across the

dark waters it fled, until it, too, was lost to sight. Ben's slumber drifted with him off in the opposite direction, to calm,

untroubled sleep.

Mrs. Winn's cottage pie was as mouthwatering as the dessert of jam roly-poly pudding and custard. She

certainly knew how to cook for a hungry lad and his dog.

Ben brought up Mrs. Winn's remark from the afternoon. "Winnie, I hope you don't mind me asking, but why did

you say that it would be better if your son and his family stayed in Ceylon? Don't you want them to visit you?" As if

she had been waiting for a sympathetic ear, the old lady poured forth her tale of woe.

"A man from up north has come to live just outside of Chapelvale. His name is Obadiah Smithers, and he is in

the business of industrial speculation. Do you know what that means? Small villages and hamlets right across Britain

are being destroyed by men like Smithers. They build their mills and factories with chimneys belching black smoke,

sink mines with slag heaps defacing the countryside, hack out quarries, scarring the fields and destroying the

woodlands— all in the name of progress, which they say nothing can stop! Yet all they bring, the Smitherses of this

world, is misery, for money. Temporary hovels for their workers, low wages, and folk working right 'round the clock

to make vast profits for their masters."

Ben could see by Mrs. Winn's clenched fists and quivering voice that she was defiant, yet frightened. He spoke

soothingly. "So, what is it that Smithers wants with Chapelvale? It's just a little village."

With an effort she steadied her voice. "He wants limestone, would you believe. It appears Chapelvale is sitting

on top of huge limestone deposits! As you know, limestone is the basis of cement, and what with all the building

going on all over England, cement is in great demand. Progress means more buildings: more buildings, more cement!

Obadiah Smithers, together with Jackman Donning and Bowe, a London firm, did a survey of the land and made the

discovery. They plan to have a limestone quarry and a cement factory, right here in Chapelvale. They even had the

railway branch line built so they can deliver cement anywhere. By next Thursday, when the demolition order is made

official, the shops, houses, school, the entire village will be no more!"

"Couldn't you move to another village?"

Ben's remark was quite innocent. He was taken aback at the vehemence of the old lady's reaction—she virtually

exploded.

"Move? Certainly not, young man! Chapelvale and the surrounding lands first belonged to the Winn family. I

consider it my village!"

The boy shrugged. "Has nobody tried to stop all of this?"

Mrs. Winn banged the table with frustration. "I tried, the day that Smithers posted his first notice in the square. I

went straight to my lawyer, Mr. Mackay, and stated my claim as a member of the Winn family. But the only deeds of

ownership I have are for this house. I haven't any other written proof—I don't even have the deeds to the village

almshouse in the square, though Captain Winn said it still belongs to his family and it is our inheritance."

"A village almshouse?"

The old lady poured tea as she explained. "Long ago an almshouse was a place where poor people could find

free food and lodging. They were generally owned by rich families, or the Church. Poor friars, brothers of begging

orders, mendicant monks, often stayed at them. Nobody really knows how old our almshouse is, but it's very ancient.

Unfortunately, it's in a dreadful state of repair. An old friend of Captain Winn's has taken to living there. His name is

Jon Preston—the vil-lagers think that he's quite mad."

Ben replenished the old lady's teacup. "I'd like to meet him."

She shook her head with a quick, severe, bird-like movement. "I'd advise you to steer clear of him, lad. That old

hermit doesn't take kindly to strangers or young people!"

She sniffed, wiping her eyes with her apron hem. "He'll have to find somewhere else to live after next Thursday.

The deadline comes in force then and there's little I, or anyone else, can do about it."

The strange boy's blue eyes softened. He felt sad for the old lady. "Only one week, but why?"

Mrs. Winn gave a hopeless little shrug. "Smithers and his London investors are powerful people. I can't prove

the Winn title to Chapelvale land, and I haven't the money to fight them. Jon Preston said he'd look for evidence, and

Mr. Maekay has done his best to help, but it's no use.

"A month ago Smithers and his friends took out a Court Order. They posted a notice in the village square. It

says that any person—but it really means me—must prove ownership of the land. In the event of no legal claims

turning up, Smithers and the Londoners intend to purchase the village, shops, houses, almshouse, farms, everything.

Then they can demolish Chapelvale to make way for their quarry and cement factory.

"That was a month ago—there's only seven days left now. Not only that. I know Smithers allows that boy of his

to run loose with his gang. They harass me, the shopkeepers, and village folk. Some folk are so tormented by them

that they'll be glad to move away in the end!"

Ned and Horatio had wandered into the parlor. They both lay stretched on the hearthrug when the hall clock

chimed nine. Other than that the room lay silent in the gathering dusk of late-summer evening. Mrs. Winn sat staring

out of the window at her garden with its high redbrick wall, rhododendrons and roses, the neat square lawn separated

by a gently curving path with borders of pansies, gypsy grass, and busy lizzie. Ben resisted the urge to comfort her.

Instead he passed a thought to his dog.

"Did you hear all that?"

The big black animal opened one eye. "Well, almost, I've got the general idea of what's going on. Though I

don't see how we can help."

Ben's fists clenched involuntarily. "But we've got to help. Now I know why the angel steered us to Chapelvale,

Ned: We must help these people to help themselves in some way or other! Ned, you've closed that eye—are you going

to sleep?"

The Labrador's eye flicked lazily open. "No, I'm giving it some thought. The best way to solve a problem is to

sleep on it. Not a lot we can start doing until tomorrow, is there, Ben?"

The boy watched Mrs. Winn rise and start clearing away the dinner things. He helped her to carry the dishes out

to the kitchen, then took up a dishcloth. "You wash and I'll wipe, Winnie. We'll soon get these dishes cleared away,

and please stop worrying, everything will turn out all right, you've got me and Ned to help you now."

She shook her head and smiled. "Ned can't help with the dishes." Turning away from the sink, Mrs. Winn found

herself staring into the boy's wise blue eyes.

"You'd be surprised how me and Ned can help you!" he said.

15.

AS SUNLIGHT STREAMED THROUGH THE window onto the counterpane, a dairy cart clattered by in the

lane. Ben wakened gradually, taking stock of his new sur-roundings. The house was quiet, which gave him the feeling

it was quite early. He let his gaze wander from the lace curtains and the warm July day outside. Stretching lazily, he

lay back, studying the flowered wallpaper and the small iron-and-tile fireplace with a lacquered screen standing on its

hearth. He heard the hall clock chime faintly from downstairs and counted each chime.... Ten!

Leaping out of bed, he dressed hastily, rushed to the bathroom, splashed water on his face, and dashed

downstairs, having to leap the last three to avoid tripping over Horatio.

Ned was sitting in the kitchen beside an empty bowl. He nodded at Ben. "Morning. Sleep well?"

The boy answered the thought as he picked up a note from the table. "Why didn't you come up and wake me

earlier?"

The dog put his front paws up on the table alongside his mate. "Didn't want to disturb any plans you were

sleeping on, you know, to help Mrs. Winn. What does her note say?"

Ben scanned the scrap of paper. " 'Gone to village to do some shopping, porridge in pot on range, make tea for

yourself. See you later. Winnie.' "

He felt the pot, it was still hot. So was the tea in the teapot. The boy served himself and sat at the table, thinking.

"She can't have gone too long ago."

The big black Lab blinked patiently. "Not more than ten minutes or so. Well, what's the plan, O wise master?"

Over the centuries, Ben had come to appreciate the dog's banter. Dishing himself a large bowl of porridge, he

conversed as he ate.

"A library, that's it, Ned. If Chapelvale has a library, that'd be a good place for us to start. It would probably

have local history and reference books concerning this area. Might give us a lead or two."

The Lab snorted. "A lead: was that meant to be a joke? Libraries aren't fond of dogs roaming 'round loose

among the books. Not great readers, us dogs."

Ben poured tea, stirring in lots of sugar. "Right, Ned, so what are your plans for the day?"

The dog trotted out of the kitchen, passing on his thoughts. "Open the front door, mate, I think I'll take a stroll

'round the village. Keep the old ears open, y'know. Might hear some information to pass on to the young master, eh?"

Ben grinned. "I'm older than you. Let me see, I was born in 1607, that makes me two hundred and eighty-nine

years old. You were only four when I met you. That makes you, er, two hundred and eighty. So be more respectful to

your elders, pup!"

Ned turned and poked his head around the doorway. "Pup indeed! Listen, laddie, one human year is equal to

eight dog years. So that makes me ... er, hmmm ... a lot older than you by far, so show a little respect and mind your

manners!"

The boy, his hair an unruly thatch, watched his friend trot off down the path. "Go easy now, old fellow, it'll

soon be time for your nap. Hahaha!"

The dog turned and wrinkled his nose. "Silence, insolent child!"

After breakfast Ben saw Alex and Amy Somers in the lane, and nodded back at the house. "D'you like my new

place?"

Amy giggled. "That's Miz Winn's house, she's nice. We went there with Dad when he treated her cat. Are you

staying there, Ben?"

The boy flicked the hair from his eyes. "For a while. Listen, you two, I need your help again. You know

Chapelvale, is there a local library hereabouts?"

The girl pointed. "Over by the school, actually it's attached to our village school. The librarian is Mr.

Braithwaite. He works in the library right through the summer holidays. You'll like him, he's funny."

Alex led the way. "Come on, we'll take you there. What do you want, some kind of special book? Where's your

dog today?"

Ben strolled along with the friendly pair. "Oh, he's around somewhere. He often goes off on lone rambles. I was

wondering if I might get hold of a book about the local history of Chapelvale. I'm trying to help Mrs. Winn prove her

claim to the land hereabout."

Amy pulled a face. "Oh that, you should hear the names our dad calls Mr. Smithers. If Smithers has his way, it

looks like we will be moving to Hadford soon."

Ben noticed the angry look on the girl's pretty face. "Hadford, where's that?"

Alex explained. "It's the nearest big town, all factories and streets full of chimney smoke. Dad won't lose his job,

he's the veterinary surgeon for most of the county, but if Smithers buys every shop in the village and sets up his

quarry and cement works, everyone will have to move. I'd hate to live in Hadford! Chapelvale's a good little village.

We like it here."

Ben nodded. "Good! Then let's see what we can do to save the old place. Will you help me?"

His new friend's eyes shone with excitement. "I'll say we will!"

Mr. Braithwaite had a slight stoop, and small spectacles balanced on the end of his nose. He also had a huge

cloud of frizzy grey hair, which he constantly scratched at absent-mindedly. As Ben and his friends entered the library,

Mr. Braithwaite glanced up over his glasses at them. "Hmm, er, Alexander and Amelia, er, er, Somers, isn't it, hmm

yes, right, er. Not like you two t'be in the er, library when the hmm, school's finished for summer, er, er, no indeed!"

Amy introduced their new friend. "Sir, this is Ben, he wants to look at local history books. We're trying to save

the village, you see."

The librarian-cum-schoolmaster came out from behind his counter. Scratching his head with one hand, whilst

brushing dandruff from his collar with the other, he peered at the strange boy with blue eyes.

"Hmm, ah yes, very good! Is there, er, any specific reference you wanted to er, see, young, er .. . man?"

Ben tried his best to look intelligent and polite. "Yes sir, I'd like to look at anything in connection with

Chapelvale and the Winn family, please."

Mr. Braithwaite nodded furiously, a pencil falling from behind his ear as he warmed to his favorite subject.

"Hmm, mm, mm, yes, Chapelvale, Winn family, very good! I'm er, actually er, quite a noted, er, devotee of hmm,

local history. Now, if I'm, er, correct, the volume you want is called, er, Village Chronicles of the British Isles, part, er,

four! Yes, very good, very good, by Roger, let me see, Russell Hope. By Roger Hope Russell, er, pardon me!"

They followed him as he scurried animatedly to a back shelf and knelt on the floor, his head to one side,

muttering. "Domesday Commentary, Anglo-Saxon Settlements ... Aha! Here 'tis, the very volume, er, er, indeed!"

The huge, dusty, leather-bound volume made an echoing thud when Mr. Braithwaite slammed it on the table.

With the enthusiasm of an amateur historian, he scoured the index. "Chapelmount, Chapel Norton, Chapelton... Yes,

yes, got it! Page 986, appendix B."

Leafing through the yellowed pages, Mr. Braithwaite found the relevant item. He stood scratching his frizzy

mop in a shaft of sunlight, until he was surrounded by a halo of dandruff. He nodded approvingly as Ben read aloud

from the page.

" 'Chapelvale (circa 1340), medieval village land. Granted to a Sea Captain (origin and name unknown) by the

Black Prince, Edward III. Church built there, later to become an almshouse. Used by wayfaring poor and mendicant

monks. Second church building (circa 1673) following Test Act and persecution of Catholics under Charles II. Mainly

pasture and some agriculture. Middle England village with square. Nearby town Hadford.' "

Ben scanned the page in silence awhile before looking up. "Nothing more of any real interest here. Thank you,

sir. Is there anything else about Chapelvale in your library?"

Mr. Braithwaite rocked back and forth on his heels. "Any what? Oh, er, hmmm. No no, nothing, er, I'm afraid!"

Ben signaled his friends with a nod. "Many thanks for your help, sir. We've got to go now. Good-bye!"

The stooped librarian stood watching them leave, searching for the pencil behind his ear, which had fallen

earlier. "Quite, er, yes. Good-bye, er, er.... Call again if there's anything you should, er, need, very good, very good,

yes!"

They emerged from the library into the sunlit late morning. Ben chuckled. "What an odd old fogey."

Without warning Alex went pale. He turned to go back into the library. Ben checked him, noting his frightened

look.

"Steady on, there. What's the matter with you, pal?"

Staring straight ahead, Amy answered for her brother. "It's the Grange Gang!"

Wilf Smithers, Regina Woodworthy, and the gang had formed a semicircle about the library steps, blocking the

way.

Ben threw an arm around the younger boy. "Stick with me, they won't bother us, pal!"

As they started down the steps, Wilf and Regina circled either side of them, their aim to get behind the trio and

cut off any retreat. Wilf pinched Alex's cheek and smiled maliciously.

"Hello, it's little Alexandra!"

Clearly terrified, the boy turned beetroot red and kept silent.

This encouraged the bully, who sniggered. "Alexandra's gone all shy. Blushing, are we, Alexandra?"

Amy came fearlessly to her brother's defense. Whirling on Wilf, she shouted at him defiantly. "He's not

Alexandra, his name is Alexander! You big bully, why don't you go away and leave us alone?"

Wilf pretended he had not heard her, but Regina positioned herself in front of the smaller girl. She stood

blocking Amy's path, arms folded and a sneer on her face, which was red and bruised from her fall off the garden wall

a day earlier.

"Are you going to make us go away, eh?".

Smiling at the results of his dog's chase, Ben addressed the Grange Gang girl in a friendly tone. "That's a nasty

bruise on your face, what happened to you?"

Wilf was two steps above Ben. He turned on the newcomer. "It's none of your business. Anyhow, who are you?

An' what do you want around here?"

Smiling even wider, the boy shrugged. "Oh, I'm nobody really, just been to the library to catch up on a bit of

reading. But I don't imagine reading interests you. No, you look more like the type who likes to color in the pictures."

The rest of the gang looked at one another, shocked. You didn't talk to Wilf Smithers like that. The village bully

was the biggest, strongest boy in Chapelvale, and he had a reputation for being quick-tempered and extremely violent.

Wilf's face turned brick red at the stranger's insult. Clenching both fists, he snarled dangerously. "I'll color your face

in for you, smart mouth!"

Amy shook with fright as Wilf launched himself down the steps, fists swinging. Ben was bound to get hurt.

However, the smaller, towheaded lad stood there, still smiling, as if unaware of the danger. Moving a swift

half-pace to one side, he turned to face Alex. "D'you think he's upset?" Ben ducked his head slightly.

It was a perfectly timed move. Wilf's fist actually brushed the back of Ben's hair, then he went sailing past his

victim, carried by his own impetus. Stumbling awkwardly, he fell down the last four steps onto the gravel path.

Before anyone could react, the boy skipped nimbly down and began hauling Wilf upright, helpfully brushing the

bully's clothing off.

"What a dreadful fall. Are you all right? Easy now, friend. Hope you haven't broken anything!" Wilf's nose had

scraped the gravel, and a swelling was starting to show on his forehead. He shoved free of Ben's hands.

"Leggo of me, I'm no friend of yours!"

The smile had never left Ben's face for a moment. "Oh, what a shame, I hoped we would be pals. I was looking

to make new friends in Chapelvale."

The bullying girl grabbed Amy's arm, digging her nails in cruelly. "I'll be seeing you around!"

But she instantly released her hold, wincing painfully. Ben had her other hand in a curious grip and was shaking

it heartily.

"Any friend of Amy's is a pal of mine. Hope I'll see you around, too. Look, Alex, I'm making new friends

already!"

He released Regina's hand. She shot a furious glance at Wilf, who called to the rest of the gang. "Let's get

them!"

Ben placed himself in front of Alex and Amy, backing slowly up the steps as the gang members began closing

in. He whispered to his friends. "Get out of here, make a run for it. It's me they want!"

Alex was about to dash off, but his sister caught his arm. "We're not going without you, Ben!"

Before she could say any more they were surrounded. There was a panicked squeak from Tommo, the fat boy,

followed by a deep, rumbling snarl. The gang froze!

The black Labrador had come up behind them like a phantom. Hair bristling, muscles bunched, he stood

panther-like, ready to spring to the attack, quivering lips pulled back to reveal his powerful canine fangs.

Ben's hand went up. "Stay, boy. ... Stay!"

Regina pulled a small gang member in front of her for safety. "It's the dog! Do you own it?"

Seating himself on the steps, Ben shook his head. "Who, me? No, I don't own him, he just follows me about.

Haha! He must like me, 'cos he's not too friendly with anyone who tries to harm me or my friends. Ned, come on, boy,

good dog!"

Stiff-legged and growling with menace, the big, black dog stalked up to stand beside his mate, throwing out a

thought. "Let me chase 'em, just for exercise. That big one, Wilf, I'll rip the seat out of his pants! I don't like him one

bit!"

Ben took hold of Ned's collar. "Thanks anyway, but you stay put for the moment. Carry on with your fierce dog

act."

Ned strained against Ben's hold on his collar, rearing up on his hind legs as if trying to get at the gang. Ben did

his part by showing difficulty holding the dog back and calling, "You'd best get going, pals, but walk, don't run,

whatever you do. Go on, I'll keep him here until you're well out of the way!"

Amy had never seen the Grange Gang go so carefully. They retreated as if they were walking on eggs. From a

distance, Wilf turned and pointed a finger at Ben.

"I'll see you again, when you haven't got that dog with you!"

The blue-eyed boy waved cheerily. "That'll be nice, Wilf, take care of those scratches on your nose. It's red

enough as it is!"

Mr. Braithwaite emerged from the library, scratching his head. "Er, could you stop your dog barking, please ?

Hmm, I can, er, hear it, y'know, in the, er, er, library. Oh, it's stopped, hmm, very good, very good. Nice doggie, er,

run along now."

Ned sent Ben a thought. "Huh, if I scratched as much as he does, you'd prob'ly say I had fleas and make me take

a bath!" The towheaded lad could not help laughing aloud.

Amy stared at him. "What's the matter, Ben?"

He flicked the hair from his eyes. "Oh, nothing really. You were right, Amy, Mr. Braithwaite is funny. I like

him."

16.

OVER BREAKFAST ON SATURDAY MORNING, Ben had a request to ask of Mrs. Winn.

"Miz Winn, that room across the landing from my room upstairs, the one with the thick door and brass lock.

What do you use it for?"

She looked at him over the rim of her teacup. "I don't use it for anything, that was Captain Winn's study. He

called it his den. All his stuff is in there. I only go in once every couple of months to dust around."

Ben had made an educated guess that the room would be the captain's private sanctum. Apart from one or two

souvenirs he had brought home for his wife and some photographs that decorated the mantel, there was not much

evidence of a Royal Navy ship's commander about the rest of the house. Evidently Mrs. Winn kept the room as some

sort of shrine to her husband's memory. She watched Ben's eyes carefully.

Knowing what he was going to say next, he hesitated a moment before speaking. "Miz Winn, would it be

all right if I took a look in there?"

The black dog had wandered up to the table. She patted his head, feeding him buttered toast crusts, and kept

Ben waiting on her answer, which she gave after a lengthy interval. "Is it important that you look in the captain's room,

Ben?"

The boy nodded earnestly. "Time's running short for your village. We might find something up there that could

help."

She took a final sip of tea. "Right, then, you may take a look this afternoon, when we get back from shopping in

the village. I'll need your help to carry things, I'm not just shopping for myself anymore. Come on, then, let's make an

early start!"

Hiding his frustration at not being able to search immediately, Ben thanked her and passed a thought to Ned.

"Never mind hiding under the table, you're coming, too!"

Morning sun dappled through the trees growing behind the village square. The place hummed gently with that

Saturday morning sound of folk doing their weekend shopping. Ben carried Mrs. Winn's basket dutifully, wondering

when she was going to finish getting her supplies. They had gone from shop to shop, the old lady bustling about,

dropping items into the basket, talking aloud to herself. "There, sugar and rice and some nutmegs for my Sunday rice

pudding. Come on, young man, keep up!"

At last they emerged from the shop. Mrs. Winn pursed her lips, mentally itemizing the grocery list. "Oh dear, I

forgot the tea! Maybe I'll get some cocoa, too, a mug of cocoa's nice at bedtime. Do you like cocoa, Ben? You stay

here, I'll go and get it." She vanished inside the shop again.

Ben changed hands, swapping the basket from right to left and tightening his hold on a package beneath his arm.

He caught a thoughtwave from Ned. "Good boy, don't let that basket drop now. Over here, Ben, look who's with me."

The Somerses were sitting on the post office steps, stroking Ned, who was enjoying the attention immensely.

Ben spoke aloud to the dog as he approached.

"You great lazy lump, you should be carrying this. Whew! Miz Winn certainly takes some keeping up with for

an old lady. Hello there, you two!"

Amy pointed to the package beneath his arm. "What's in the parcel, Ben?"

To her surprise he looked faintly embarrassed. "Some new clothes. Miz Winn bought them. I didn't want her to,

but she thinks I need to look respectable for Sunday church service tomorrow. Move over there, pals."

Ben sat with them on the post office steps, watching folk following their weekend shopping routines as always.

Shop doorbells tinkled as people came and went, standing beneath the canvas awnings, gossiping and viewing the

goods behind the bull's-eye-paned windows of drapers, chandlers, butchers, and dairy produce merchants.

Housewives with heavily laden shopping bags hanging from the handles of baby perambulators, calling to husbands

who were chatting to other menfolk outside the newsagent and tobacconists. Children with coned paper bags,

emerging from the sweetshop, sucking on treacle toffees, aniseed balls, and nut brittle, gazing absently about to locate

their parents. Ben could not help commenting.

"Odd, isn't it. You wouldn't think that the place has less than a week left as a village. Don't they care, what's the

matter with them?"

The girl watched Ben's intense blue eyes studying the scene. "My mum says it's because they're village folk,

with a village mentality. She says they won't accept it could happen to them. These village families go back centuries.

They just don't know what progress and change mean. If anything frightens them, they push it to the back of their

minds and get on with their lives. Hoping it'll go away, I suppose."

Alex's face reddened, and he stared down at the step. "Like me. I try to ignore Wilf Smithers and his gang. I

wasn't much use to you yesterday, never said a word, just stood there like a lump."

Ben patted his friend's arm reassuringly. "But you did do something, pal, you stood alongside Amy and me. It

was Ned who saved the day. I was as scared as you or your sister—there was a whole gang of them. No shame in

being afraid when you're outnumbered more than three to one, right, Amy?"

The girl could see their new friend was being kind to her brother, and she nodded. "That's right, Ben. There's

better ways of being brave than letting yourself get beaten up by Smithers's gang."

Ben rose as he saw Mrs. Winn approaching. "Your sister's right, Alex. Courage shows itself in different

ways—chin up, pal, you'll see."

Mrs. Winn loaded more purchases into the basket and greeted the two young people.

"Well, good morning, do you remember me? You came with your father when my cat was sick last year. Now

let me see, you both had names beginning with A ... Amelia and Alexander!"

Alex had cheered up a bit, and he corrected her. "Amy and Alex, Miz Winn. I remember you gave us apple pie

and lemonade. How is your cat now?"

Mrs. Winn rummaged through her purse as she replied. "Horatio's fine, thank you, fine. Ben, how would you

like to take your friends for some ice cream? Evans Tea Shoppe makes their own, you'll enjoy it. I'll come over later

for tea and a scone. Here, Amy, you can be in charge of the ice cream money. Don't forget to buy one for Ned, too.

He's a good dog."

Ben picked up the basket. "Where are you going, Miz Winn?"

Setting her lips tightly, she pointed at two figures entering a building on the square's east side. "Right where

those two are going, to my lawyer's office. I've been hoping to see Mackay. Time's of the essence, isn't it." She had

said nothing about an appointment. "I'll see you later."

As they watched Mrs. Winn walking swiftly across to the lawyer's office, Amy nodded to the man who was

ushering a young lady into the building ahead of him. "That's Obadiah Smithers, Wilf's dad. He's the one who's

buying the village to turn it into a cement factory. I don't know who the lady is, though."

Ben glanced at the pair. "Neither do I, but I saw them get off the train together when I arrived here. Maybe she's

from London, part of that firm Smithers has dealings with—"

Alex interrupted. "Jackman Donning and Bowe, that's who my dad said they were. Wonder which one she is?"

17.

EVANS TEA SHOPPE DID SERVE GOOD ICE cream—it came in a long dish, pink and white with raspberry

sauce and chocolate crumbs sprinkled on top. Mr. Evans worked in the back of the shop, baking and making ice

cream. Blodwen, his wife, an immense jolly woman with a strong Welsh accent, served them. Though animals were

not usually allowed inside, she was charmed by the big black Labrador, who looked very meek and offered his paw.

Mrs. Evans lifted the edge of the tablecloth. "Ooh look you now, there's a lovely dog, he is. Sit him under the table

now. Indeed to goodness, who'd be keepin' a fine dog like him outside with no ice cream!"

As Ned tucked into his ice cream, which came on a tin plate, Ben tuned in to the dog's thoughts. "Delicious,

wonderful stuff. Just the thing after a hard morning's shopping!" Ben put his feet on the dog's back as he answered.

"You great furry fraud!"

Ben pulled aside the lace curtain. From where he was sitting he could see an ancient, rambling, one-story

building at the square's northwest corner. It was a jumble of wattle and daub, stonewalling and patches of worn brick,

with crumbling mortar, makeshift repairs against the ravages of time. The faded roof of thatch sat on it like a badly

fitted wig with a raggedy fringe. A large bump sticking up in the center of the roof gave it an odd, rather comical

aspect. The whole thing was fronted by an overgrown patch of greenery and a rickety fence, partially broken by

bushes growing through it. Sunlight shading through high hawthorns lent it an air of picturesque dilapidation. He

pointed with his spoon.

"Is that the place they call the almshouse?"

Alex looked up from his ice cream. "Yes, but you'd best stay away from it, Ben. The mad professor lives there!"

Ben laughed, as if the other boy was joking. "Haha, mad professor?"

Amy backed her brother's statement up. She whispered, "It's true, Ben, a mad professor does live in the

almshouse. He doesn't like people and he seldom comes out—even Wilf Smithers and the Grange Gang don't go near

there. They say he has a double-barreled shotgun and he's not afraid to use it. Alex is right, keep away from the

almshouse!"

From her side of the table Amy could see Mr. Mackay's office. "Look, Ben." She pointed. "There's Miz Winn

coming out of the lawyer's office. I wonder what she was doing in there?"

Even from a distance it was plain to see that the old lady's dander was up. Mr. Mackay, a small, dapper lawyer,

was standing between Mrs. Winn, Obadiah Smithers, and Maud Bowe, anxiously trying to prevent trouble. He was

not having much success. The old lady, her chin thrust forward pugnaciously, was wagging a finger at Smithers and

Bowe, evidently giving them a piece of her mind. Several times the pair tried to walk away, but she confronted them,

not giving up until she had said what she wanted. It was Mrs. Winn who finished the argument as well. She stamped

her foot and marched off, leaving her foes dumbfounded. Mr. Mackay scuttled back into his office, glad to have all

three away from his premises before they attracted too much notice.

Amy nodded admiringly. "Here she comes, good old Winnie. Oh, Ben. I wish there were more folk in

Chapelvale like her. She won't give up without a fight!"

The blue-eyed lad licked the last of his ice cream from the spoon. "Who knows, maybe there are, once they get

stirred up enough to do something about their problems."

Mrs. Winn's black-button boots clicked sharply on the floor as she marched into Evans Tea Shoppe. Her cheeks

were quite pink and she was obviously irate. She rapped twice on the counter. "A pot of Ceylon tea and a hot buttered

scone, if you please, Blodwen!"

Blodwen gave her a cheery nod. "Indeed to goodness, Winnie Winn, there's bothered you look. Sit you down,

dearie, I'll bring them right to you!"

Amy moved swiftly to make room as Mrs. Winn came to sit at the table. She blew out a long breath, took a

small mirror from her bag, and began primping the hair that wisped out either side of her navy blue straw boater hat.

Her order arrived swiftly; she poured a cup of tea, took three good sips, and tried to compose herself. Then she spoke.

"Well! The very nerve of that Smithers and that young snippet with the dreadful London accent!"

Ben felt like smiling at her indignation, but he put on a serious face. "Did they upset you, Miz Winn?"

She drew herself up and took another sip of tea. "Upset me? Certainly not! I wouldn't lower my standards and

allow myself to be upset by the likes of them. Do you know, they made me a cash offer for my home and the

almshouse? A piffling sum! When they saw I was not impressed, they doubled the offer. Hmph! I told them they

could quadruple their paltry money, it still wouldn't budge me an inch!

"Then Smithers said he had taken legal advice, he said that if I still refused their offer after his scheme was

under way, he could have me forcibly put out of my home and he could take possession of the almshouse without

further permission!"

Blodwen Evans had been lingering nearby, eavesdropping, as she usually did on any good village gossip. She

moved in to collect the empty ice cream dishes. "And what did Mackay have to say about that, Winnie?"

The old lady seemed to deflate, her voice dropped to a murmur. "He said Smithers and his friends had the law

on their side. That unless I can prove valid ownership and proper legal documents I haven't a leg to stand on."

Blodwen Evans gestured with a thumb to where her husband was at work in the back of the shop. "Aye,

Smithers made my Dai a miserable offer as well, but what can we do, we ain't got the money to fight him. My Dai

says we'll prob'ly have to take the offer for the teashop an' move back to Wales. Still, that may not be. I've talked to a

lot of folk. There's Pettigrew the newsagent, Riley the ironmonger, Mrs. White from the sweetshop, and Mr.

Stansfield the butcher. They say it can't happen, you know. Look you, even Smithers can't demolish a whole village

just for some old limestone!"

Ben interrupted her. "He can, Mrs. Evans, and he will, unless something is done to stop him."

Any further conversation was cut short by loud banging on the wall from the alley outside. A row of

willow-pattern plates standing on edge upon a shelf began to tremble and clatter under the pounding vibration from

the outside of the wall. Mr. Dai Evans came running out into the shop, wiping flour from his hands and untying his

baking apron.

As his wife hurried to steady the plates, she called to him. "It's that young Smithers an' his gang again, Dai!"

He dashed outside. Amy was about to rise when Ben stopped her. "Wait a moment, let's listen."

From outside Dai Evans could be heard shouting. "I know it's you, Wilf Smithers, no use leanin' against that

wall, lookin' as if butter wouldn't melt in your mouth. Go on, be off with the lot of you!"

Wilf Smithers's voice sounded out impudently. "It wasn't us! We've got as much right to lean against this wall

as anyone. Why blame us?"

Mr. Evans's voice shook with temper. "I know it was you lot. If you're not gone from here in two ticks, I'll call

the constable!" Dai walked back into the shop, his fists clenching and unclenching at his sides, shaking his head and

muttering. "I tell you, Blodwen. They'll have us out of here one way or the other. I'll be glad to get back to Wales,

look you!"

Blodwen set the last plate straight and was just moving back to the counter when the wall shook in time with the

chanting of the Grange Gang outside.

"Dai diddly eye dai.. . Dai Dai!"

She had to hurry to get back to her plates. Dai Evans grabbed a metal hooked pole he kept for pulling down the

shade blinds. "Right, that's it, boyo, I've 'ad enough!"

Ben was on his feet, with Ned beside him. He stood in front of Dai, his voice calm. "You'll end up in trouble

yourself if you go 'round breaking heads with that thing, Mr. Evans. Leave this to me."

Dai stared at the lad's steady blue eyes, unsure of what to do, until Mrs. Winn stood up. "Do as he says, Mr.

Evans, you can trust the boy."

As Ben walked from the Tea Shoppe, Dai Evans stood to one side, avoiding Ned, whose hackles had risen. The

big, black Labrador was growling, low and ominous.

There was a moment's silence, followed by screams, yells, and barking, then the pounding of feet. Ben strolled

back into the shop and sat down. He winked at Blodwen Evans. "More ice cream, please, marm, and a pot of fresh tea

for Miz Winn. My turn to pay for this one, pals."

Five minutes later the dog returned and flopped down beneath the table, passing Ben a thought. "I chased 'em up

as far as the station, where they ran into the waiting room. Station-master didn't like it much, he was chasing them out

as I left. Wilf tried arguing with him, said he'd tell his dad that the sta-tionmaster was driving them out into the teeth

of a wild dog. Stationmaster didn't seem bothered, said he didn't care if there was a pack of wolves outside, they

weren't allowed on railway property without a valid ticket for a train journey. Told them to go and play their silly

games elsewhere. Any ice cream left?"

Ned was the hero of the hour. Dai and Blodwen Evans refused to take any money for tea or ice cream. Dai knelt

by the table, feeding the Labrador a plateful of vanilla ice cream with fresh milk poured over it. Ned lapped away

happily as Dai ruffled his ears.

"There's a good dog, you are, wish I 'ad one like you, boyo. How did you get him to do it, Ben?"

It was Amy who answered for Ben. "It was nothing really, Mr. Evans, it's just that Ned can't stand noise or bad

manners."

Ben grinned at her over his plate of ice cream. "Well said, Amy, you're getting to know Ned rather well!"

18.

MAUD BOWE SAT PRIMLY AT THE SMITHERSES' table with Obadiah and his wife Clarissa. They waited

in silence as the maid served a gammon ham salad. Obadiah poured himself a glass of claret, ignoring his wife and

Maud, who preferred barley cordial in the afternoon. When the maid had retired, shutting the door behind her, Maud

continued her onesided argument. Mr. Smithers dismissed her every point, overriding everything she said. Though in

the light of what had taken place with Mrs. Winn, it was Maud who was winning the debate.

She tapped the spotless white damask tablecloth with a dainty finger. "As I've said, sir, this is going to cost us

quite a bit!"

Smithers took a large swig of wine and stifled a belch. "Nonsense, m'girl, everything's well in order, take it

from me."

Mrs. Smithers gazed at her salad, slightly shocked that a young girl would argue with her husband, a thing she

never dared do. But Maud persisted. "Everything may well be in order with the rest of the villagers, sir. But Mrs.

Winn is the one who is digging her heels in, she's going to be trouble. If she refuses our offer, we'll have to wait seven

clear days just for a possession warrant. That's what my father says, and he knows the law, believe me!"

Smithers poured himself more claret, stuffing a piece of gammon in his mouth with his fingers. Table manners

were not his strong point. He pointed a greasy finger at Maud. "Good man, your father, nice fellow. But he doesn't

know everything. Not by a long chalk, missie!"

Maud hid her revulsion of the ill-bred northerner, but spoke out pertly in her father's defense. "My father knows

his business, sir! He has made contracts with building firms that will not wait seven extra days. If Mrs. Winn is not

out of her house on the deadline stated in the clearance notice, it will cost our scheme dearly with penalties for broken

agreements. I hope you are aware of the position that delays can put us in!"

Mrs. Smithers flinched as her husband's temper broke. He sprayed ham and claret into the air as he shouted.

"Don't you dare to tell me my business, girl! I know these villagers better than you or your father. Hah! What has that

old Winn biddy got to prove her claims, eh? Nothing! We'll be saving ourselves money by clapping a compulsory

court order on her. A mere pittance set by the county developer, that's all she'll get for her house! As for the

almshouse, it belongs to nobody, we'll get that free! The rest of the villagers are too disorganized to resist us. They

know virtually nothing about the law, we'll pay 'em the set rate for their properties. Little enough that'll be, I can tell

you!"

He sat back, digging a scrap of ham from his teeth with a fingernail. But Maud would not be browbeaten.

Wiping her lips daintily on a damask table napkin, she pushed aside her plate and rose from the table. "I'm going to

my room, sir.

Nothing has changed, we need to get the old lady out of her house by the appointed time. Whilst I'm upstairs,

I'll give some thought to the problem. Perhaps you would do well to follow my example!"

She swept out of the dining room without another word, leaving Obadiah Smithers spluttering to his wife.

"Cheeky little snip, who does she think she's talking to, eh? She's not twelve months out of some fancy finishing

school. Hah! I was building my fortune the hard way, long before she was born. Right?"

Mrs. Smithers poured herself a glass of barley water as she replied dutifully to her irate husband. "Yes, dear,

would you like some barley water? It's nice and cool."

Claret slopped onto the tablecloth as he poured more from the decanter. "Barley water, bah! Can't abide the

filthy stuff. Look out, here's that harum-scarum of mine."

Wilf entered from the lawn by the French windows, red-faced and breathing heavily. He plunked himself down

in the chair Maud had vacated. Taking the gammon ham slices from her plate, he lathered them with mustard and

crammed them between two pieces of bread. His mother lectured him as he tore at the sandwich.

"Oh, Wilfred, you haven't washed your hands and you're late for lunch again. Leave that salad alone, it was

Miss Bowe's. I'll tell Hetty to bring you a fresh plate. Dearie me, just look at you—"

Smithers interrupted his wife brusquely. "Oh, leave the lad alone, Clarissa. Stop fussin' an' faffin' about him!

Now then, you young rip, got enough to eat there, eh?"

Wilf grumbled through a mouthful of ham sandwich. "Could do with some lemonade an' a piece of cake."

Mrs. Smithers got up from the table. "I'll go and fetch them."

Her husband called out as she left the room. "No need for you to go, what'm I payin' servants for?"

She paid him no heed and made her way to the pantry.

Smithers poured himself more claret. "Huh, women!"

He leaned close to his son and nudged him, lowering his voice confidentially.

"So then, what've you been up to, you and that gang of yours?"

Wilf wiped mustard from his mouth with the back of a grimy hand. He knew it was better to speak of victories

than defeats to his father. "Just livening things up in the village. Gave old Evans a bad time. I heard him say he'd be

glad to get back to Wales."

Mrs. Smithers came in bearing a glass of lemonade and a plate of sliced sultana cake and was making as if to sit

down when Obadiah stared pointedly at her.

"Finished your lunch, m'dear?"

She understood immediately that he wanted to be alone with Wilf. "Yes, dear, I'll go along and give Cook the

menu for dinner this evening. Do you think Miss Bowe likes roast beef?"

Obadiah snorted. "Who gives a fig what she likes. She'll get what she's given in my house, and be thankful for

it!"

Mrs. Smithers nodded and left the room.

Obadiah watched his son swigging lemonade and stuffing cake. "Never mind Evans and the rest. I've got them

well under control. Mrs. Winn's the fly in the ointment—have you and your friends been 'round to her house lately? I

need her out of there."

Wilf stopped eating and gnawed at a hangnail. "There's a lad always hanging 'round with her. He's got a black

dog with him, big, vicious thing. Makes it hard to do anything with them around, but I'll try."

His father's face hardened, he grabbed Wilf's arm tight. "I've seen them. Listen, don't let the dog bother you.

The moment it bites you or your pals, let me know. I'll get the constable to round it up and have it destroyed. I'm

surprised at you, though, Wilf. That boy is half a head shorter than you and a lot lighter. Big fellow like you should be

able to whale the livin' daylights out of him, that'd teach him a lesson. You're not scared of him, are you, son?"

Wilf's face grew even redder. "Me, scared of that shrimp? Huh!"

His father smiled. "Good boy, just like me when I was your age. You find a way to get him on his own and give

him a good thrashin'. Don't let up if he cries, show him who's boss. Will y'do that for me, eh?"

Fired by his father's words, Wilf nodded vigorously. "I'll do it, all right. I owe that one a few good punches!"

Obadiah released his son's arm. Digging into his vest pocket, he produced an assortment of silver coins and

gave them to him. "Here, buy your friends some toffee and tell them to keep old Ma Winn on her toes."

Wilf jammed two slices of sultana cake together and took a bite. He ruled the Grange Gang with an iron fist, not

toffee, and he would keep the money. "Thanks, Dad, I will," he lied.

19.

MRS. WINN TOOK A KEY FROM A JUG ON THE kitchen shelf. "Let's take a look at the captain's room,

Ben." Ned's ears rose slightly. "I'd better come with you, a good bloodhound may be required to search the room."

Ben tugged his dog's ear lightly. "You're no bloodhound, Ned."

The Labrador sniffed airily. "I should hope not—great, mournful-looking lollopers, that lot. But you know I'm

pretty good at sniffing things out, so come on, my old shipmate!"

Ben helped Mrs. Winn to negotiate the stairs, trying not to show his impatience at her lack of speed. He told

himself that he, too, would be old one day, then caught Ned's thoughtful observation. "Will you? When'll that be?"

The door was a heavy mahogany one, shining from layers of dark varnish, with brass trimmings.

Mrs. Winn gave the key to Ben. As he fitted it into the lock, he gave an involuntary shiver. Images of the sea

welled up in his mind, ships, waves, wind, thrumming sails. He pictured himself and Ned long, long ago, locked in the

galley of the Flying Dutchman, whilst outside, Vanderdecken murdered the seaman Vogel by shooting him. Then Mrs.

Winn's hand was on his arm, breaking the spell.

"Ben, are you all right, boy?"

Reality flooded back, and he straightened up, turning the key. "I'm fine, Miz Winn. It was the lock, bit stiff I

think. There, that's got it. Ladies first!"

It was a proper old seafarer's room, all shipshape and Bristol fashion, as the saying goes. Captain Winn had

been a meticulous man, always storing things tidily. Framed certificates and merit awards, alongside pictures of

various ships, carefully posed crews, and the captain himself depicted with groups of his numerous friends, hung in

even lines on the walls. There was a brass-railed table, which had once graced a ship's cabin. On it stood a sextant and

a globe.

In a corner a polished shell case stood, serving as a receptacle for some rolled-up charts and a couple of walking

canes with carved heads. A rolltop desk took up most of another corner. Beside it were two sea chests. One was a

beautiful example of carved Burmese teak, inlaid with mother-of-pearl and custard-colored ebony. The other was a

plain, black, naval-issue, officer's steamer case, with the name "Captain Rodney Winn. R.N." neatly painted on it in

white enamel.

Mrs. Winn had to remove some interesting specimens of conch and nautilus shells from the top of the desk

before she could open it. From a tiny drawer she took two keys, one plain and serviceable, the other very ornate, with

a red silk tassel hanging from it. She unlocked the two chests, handing over the keys to Ben.

"All the captain's personal papers are in the desk and these two boxes. When you finish up here, make sure you

lock everything up and put the keys back, Ben. I don't want to rummage through all this. Too many memories. Far too

many ghosts for someone of my age. Hmm, I'll have to come up here tomorrow and have a good dust around. Captain

Winn couldn't abide dust, hated it! Oh, would you like to see something, lad? Take a look at this."

She opened a wall cupboard, which was actually a built-in wardrobe. All the captain's uniforms, from

ceremonial dress to everyday duty, were hung from a rail. Below, on shelves, his accoutrements were

displayed—white gloves, cotton and wool for different climates, leather ones for formal occasions. Various ties,

cravats and bows, medals bars, ribbons, stars, and other decorations were placed with care alongside gold-braid sleeve

bands. Most of all, Ben admired a magnificent Royal Navy captain's sword and sheath, complete with gold tassels. He

turned to comment on it to Mrs. Winn, but she had gone.

Ned's thought confirmed this. "She's gone downstairs, looking rather sad, too. What a good woman. Wouldn't it

be nice if we could stay here for good, Ben. You remember that saying, there's no place like home. I'm beginning to

realize what it means. I really like it here."

The lad sat down on the carpet, next to his friend, and stroked beneath his chin as he passed back a wistful

thought. "I know what you mean, pal, but you know as well as I do, when the time comes to move on we've no option

but to go."

They sat in silence for a moment, imagining what it would be like if they were ordinary mortals, growing older,

growing up, staying in one place, living a normal life.

The big Lab broke the spell by butting Ben in the stomach and playfully knocking him flat on his back. "Come

on, shipmate, aren't we supposed to be helping Miz Winn save her home and land by searching the room for clues?"

Ben opened the captain's chest. "This looks as good a place to start as any."

The Royal Navy chest was literally crammed with old dispatches, charts, and long-out-of-date yellowed

newspapers, all in careful order.

Ben flipped through them, Ned watching him rather impatiently. "Anything of value there, Ben?"

The boy looked up from his task. "Not really, it's all like a record of Captain Winn's career, admiralty orders,

sea blockade plans, and these newspapers. Look, 1854, war declared against Russia by Britain and France. September

fourteenth, the Allied armies landing in the Crimea, the siege of Sevastopol. It goes on and on, British history, right

through the Indian Mutiny, up to Africa and the Zulu wars in the late 1870s. No family history here that would help us.

Let's have a look at this fancy trunk."

He opened the carved chest. This looked more interesting at first glance, it had a fragrance of flowers, rose and

lilac. Fine, dark red tissue paper separated the contents. Ben unpacked it and found a Chinese dragon-embroidered

gown, bundles of letters tied with blue silk ribbon, a huge family Bible, a child's crayon drawings of landscapes and

people, signed laboriously with the name James Winn, and photographs, some in cardboard frames bordered by hearts

and doves.

Ben spread these on the carpet and studied them. "Hmm, what a handsome couple. Young Lieutenant Winn and

his fiancee, Winifred, taken on the seafront at Brighton. Some wedding photographs, a picture of this house with Miz

Winn standing in the garden. Here's another of them both with a baby carriage that must have been taken when their

son Jim was born. Winnie wasn't joking when she said there were lots of memories here. What d'you think, Ned?"

The Labrador turned over a packet of letters with his nose. "Shall we take a look at these? There's lots of 'em."

Ben shook his head. "No, they're love letters from when the captain and Winnie were courting. We don't want to

pry into personal things like that. They're far too private." He set the letters to one side. "Well, I think we'd better take

a look in the desk. There doesn't seem to be anything that can help us here."

Ned gazed reprovingly at his friend. "Except the Bible!"

Ben did not catch his dog's drift for a moment. "The Bible?"

The Labrador placed his paw on the volume. "Aye, Ben, the good book—every family should have one. Good

for the spirit, a great source of scripture, and usually a book where family records are kept." Sometimes Ned's

knowledge of things was as surprising as his own.

Ben needed both hands to lift the huge Moroccan leather-bound family heirloom. "Of course! The family Bible.

Good old Ned!"

The dog stretched out and yawned. "Good old Ned indeed, where'd you be without me?"

The boy placed the hefty tome upon the desk, smiling fondly at the big black dog. "Probably drowned off Cape

Horn!"

It was a magnificent Bible, with a stained silver clasp holding it shut, faded gold-edged pages, and woven silk

place markers. Ben dusted off the cover with his sleeve, undid the clasp, and opened the ancient volume. On the inside

cover was a hand-sketched angel, bearing a scroll written in gothic script.

"This Bible belongs to the Lord and the family of Winn. Blessed are those who trust in the Lord and live by His

word."

Ben leafed carefully through the yellowed pages. Apart from beautiful illuminated verse headings and several

colorful illustrations, there was nothing out of the ordinary. At the back of the book, he discovered a number of pages,

some blank and others filled in by different hands over the centuries. Details recorded of births, deaths, and marriages

provided an almost complete lineage of the Winns for several hundred years.

Ben read some of the details aloud.

"Listen to this, Ned. 'Edmond De Winn wedded to Evelyn Crowley. 1655. Lord deliver us from the plague of

Black Death. 1665. A son, christened Charles in honor of our King. 1669. A daughter christened Eleanor.' It says here

that Edmond fathered more daughters, Winefride, Charity, Gwendoline, and three others.

"Poor old Edmond, eh, Ned, a son and seven daughters. Quite a few mouths to feed." Ben closed the giant book.

"This doesn't seem to be getting us anywhere."

The dog leapt up. Placing his front paws on the desk, he began frantically nosing at the Bible beneath Ben's

hand. "What's the matter, boy?" Ben tried to push him away. "What'll Miz Winn say if you slobber all over her family

Bible?"

But the dog persisted, sending out urgent thoughts. "The back of the book! I could see it from where I was lying.

The back, Ben. Down inside the spine, something's there!"

Ben quickly shut the book and stood it on edge. He peered down the space between the spine and the pages.

"You're right. It looks like a folded paper. Wait!" He took an ivory pair of chopsticks (one of the captain's souvenirs)

and delicately fished the object out.

As Ben carefully unfolded the paper, the black dog looked on. "A piece of torn parchment, with two tiny holes

burned in it. There's some wording on it. Read it, Ben, read it!"

The boy scanned the writing awhile. "It starts off strangely. Listen: 'Re, keep safe for the house of De Winn thy

treasure.' "

Ned's tail wagged furiously. "Treasure! I think we're on the right track. But what does 're' mean?"

Ben continued staring at the scrap of parchment. "That's where the parchment was torn. 'Re' is probably the end

two letters of a longer word. But well done to you for spotting this in the Bible's spine."

Ned's tail wagged. "Hah! Who said horses were man's best friend? What about us dogs, eh, shipmate?"

Ben put the parchment down. He leapt upon the big dog and wrestled him all over the floor, knowing this was

his favorite sport, but the Labrador got the better of Ben. Pinning him to the carpet, he began licking his face. "What

other way can your poor hound serve you, O master?"

Ben giggled as the dog's tongue tickled his ear. "You can let me up, you great, sloppy hound!"

Though they searched high and low, there were no other clues to be found. It was late by the time Ben had

tidied the room up and put everything back in its place. He folded the torn parchment and put it in his pocket. "Well,

at least that's a start, though I don't know what the message means, or the two burnt holes in the paper. But it's

something definite to begin with. Let's hope we can solve the problem before time runs out for Miz Winn and

Chapelvale. Right, mate, bed for us, I'll just go to the bathroom and wash my face."

Ned looked indignantly at Ben. "But I just washed your face for you a moment ago, there's base ingratitude for

you!"

The blue-eyed boy gave his dog a glance of mock severity. "One more word out of you and I'll wash your face

for you, with soap and a scrubbing brush!"

20.

SUNDAY MORNING, BEN ACCOMPANIED MIZ Winn to church services, dressed in his new clothes. He

felt rather self-conscious in the new outfit, his unruly hair wetted and brushed into a part. The black Labrador had

stayed home to keep Horatio company. Mrs. Winn brought her walking stick, as it was quite a walk to the church on

top of the hill. At the churchyard gate they met up with Alex and Amy Somers, together with their parents. Mrs. Winn

knew the Somerses, and she stood and chatted with them.

Alex caught Ben staring up at the spire, looking rather nervous. "It's only a church steeple, Ben, what are you

looking for?"

There was a trace of perspiration on Ben's forehead, and his face was slightly pale as he answered. "The bell,

has this church got a bell?" Mr. Braithwaite wandered close by, still in his scholarly gown. He scratched his frizzy

hair as he peered over his glasses. "Er, what's that? Oh, a bell y'say, hmmm? 'Fraid not, young er, er, fellow. The, er,

bell of St. Peter's church was, er, donated to the cause by the clergy and parishioners during the, er, er, Napoleonic

Wars. Yes, hmmm, indeed, to make armaments for the Duke of, er, Wellington's army. Bell metal, useful stuff, very

good very good!"

The feeling of whirling waters, angel voices, and the Flying Dutchman out somewhere plowing the misty main

passed. Ben felt an immediate surge of relief. At least he did not have to worry about a church with a mute belltower.

Amy tugged his sleeve to go inside, the service was starting.

St. Peter's, for all its size, was comparatively small inside. Beneath the arched wood ceiling, supported by eight

plain limestone columns, were two main aisles. There was an odor of lavender furniture polish on the benches,

kneeling hassocks were of frayed chenille. Morning sunlight poured through the few well-preserved stained-glass

windows, capturing myriad dust motes in slow swirls. Ben sat with his two friends whilst Reverend Mandel, a severe

grey-haired man, delivered a sermon on the merits of charity to one's fellow creatures. Ben felt as if someone was

watching him. He turned his head and took a quick glance at the pews behind. There was Wilf Smithers, with his

mother and the girl from London. Obadiah Smithers was not given to attending church on Sunday, or any other day

for that matter. Ben smiled at Wilf. Surprisingly, Wilf smiled back.

When service was over, Mrs. Winn stopped to drop a coin in the box for the new bell fund. Wilf came up

behind Ben and jammed a scrap of paper into Ben's pocket.

"Bet you won't be there!" he muttered in Ben's ear and moved away to join his mother and Maud Bowe at the

lych-gate outside, where a pony and cart were waiting to take them home.

Walking back downhill, Mr. Somers kindly assisted Mrs.

Winn, offering her his arm. Ben walked ahead with his two friends, who saw him take the paper from his pocket

and read what had been written on it. He laughed.

"Wilf slipped me this outside the church. Listen." Ben read out the badly written message: " 'You meet me this

afternoon at four behind the liberry if your not scared. Do not bring your dog cos I only want to talk. I will be alone. If

you do not come your a cowerd.

" 'Singed by W. Leader of the Grange Gang.' "

Ben sat down on the grassy slope, shaking his head and chuckling to himself. He passed the note to Amy, who

read it again, smiling at the childish scrawl.

"Somebody ought to teach Wilf Smithers to spell library and coward. Oh, hahaha! He's put the letter g in the

wrong place, instead of signed, it's singed. Written with a fiery pen, eh. Hahaha!" But his young friend did not find it

the least bit funny.

"Of course you're not going. Are you, Ben?"

Summer breeze took the part out of Ben's unruly hair, and he flicked it out of his eyes. "Why not?"

Alex had a number of reasons. He stated them all, anxiously. "Well, for a start, Wilf won't be alone. He'll have

his gang hiding nearby. He doesn't just want to talk. You'll get beaten up, that's why he says not to bring Ned along.

We know you aren't a coward, Ben, you don't have to go!"

Ben's strange blue eyes were smiling, but the younger boy could see something icy behind his careless

merriment. It sounded in his voice as he stood up and continued walking. "Four o'clock, I'll be there. Wouldn't miss it

for anything!"

"Then we'll be there, too!"

Ben turned to Amy. "I'd rather you left this to me, but if you really want to be there, you'd be best doing what

Wilf' s gang will do. Hide yourselves and keep an eye on my back. I'll shout if I need you, promise I will."

Amy's fists clenched at her sides. "We'll be there, won't we, Alex?"

Ben could see her brother's legs trembling as he replied. "You can count on us. We won't run off and leave

you!"

Ben threw an arm about his shoulders and squeezed lightly. "Thanks, pal, I'll feel safer with a friend like you

around. Thank you, too, Amy. Well, I'm off for lunch and a nice nap in a deck chair on the lawn. See you two at four.

Oh, sorry, I won't see you because you'll be hiding, but I'll feel a lot better knowing you're there. 'Bye, pals!"

They watched him turn off to the house with Mrs. Winn on his arm. Alex gritted his teeth. "I won't run away

this time, Amy, I'll stay and help Ben!"

Amy took the hand of her normally timid brother. "You never ran last time, Alex, you're getting braver by the

day, just like Ben."

At midday Mrs. Winn took lunch on the lawn with Ben, Ned, and Horatio. It was a soft summer Sunday, and

they had a pleasant time, basking in the quiet, sunny garden. Walking to and from church had tired the old lady out.

Her eyes flickered as she watched two white butterflies circling, weaving interminable patterns around the

lavender-blue blossoms of a bud-dleia bush. Bees droned lazily between dark crimson roses and purple-yellow

pansies, the fragrance of flowers lay light upon the still early noontide. Within a short time she was lying back in her

deck chair, sleeping peacefully.

Ben and Ned held a thoughtful conversation. "So then, ancient hound, what are your plans for the day?"

The big dog rolled luxuriously over on the grass. "Think I'll take a tour of the area with my feline friend."

Ben raised an eyebrow. "I take it you've finally got through to Horatio, then. A good talker, is he?"

Ned's ears flopped dolefully. "Not really. Sometimes he makes sense, but most of the time his thoughts are pure

nonsense." He dabbed a paw at the cat's tail. "Isn't that right, pal?"

Horatio turned his staring golden eyes upon the dog.

Ben watched; it was obvious they were communicating. "What's he saying, Ned?"

The Labrador shook his great head. "I'll translate word for word his exact thoughts at this moment. He's saying,

'Miaow miaow! Butt'fly, mouse, birdie, nice. Mowwwrrr! Winnie Winn give 'Ratio sardine an' milky milky tea, purrrr

nice!' "

Ben chuckled. "Keep at him. I'm sure Horatio will improve."

The Labrador stared forlornly at the cat. "Little savage, scoffing butterflies, mice, and birds. Ugh! What are you

going to do for the rest of the day, Ben, sit out here and snooze?"

The boy rose quietly from his deck chair. "No, I'm off to do a bit of exploring by myself... See you back here ...

shall we say about six?"

Ned waved a paw. "Six it is. Dinner will prob'ly be about seven. Mind how you go, Ben. Shout if you need me."

Ben walked briskly to the gate. "Righto, and you bark out loud if you want me for anything. See you later,

mate."

21.

CHAPELVALE VILLAGE SQUARE LAY DEserted and still in the summer afternoon, Ben was the only one

about. Crossing the square, he strolled up to the almshouse fence. Only the unruly lilac and privet bushes held the

rickety, sagging palings upright. He stood at the gate, weighing the ancient building up. A poor jumble, its thick

hanging thatch, long overdue to be rethatched. Ben unlooped a faded noose of cord that kept the gate fastened, which

creaked protestingly as he opened it, and started down the weed-scarred gravel path. A gruff voice cut the air with

thunderous power.

"Out! Get out, you're trespassin'! Out, out!" Ben stopped and held his arms out sideways. "Excuse me, I was

only—"

The voice from behind the almshouse door roared threateningly. "Out, I said! I'll give you a count of three. I'm

loading my shotgun! Out, d'ye hear.... One!... Two!"

Ben ran then, clearing the gate with a leap. Behind him he heard the click of shotgun hammers being cocked.

The voice called out in menace-laden tones. "Ye'll get both barrels if ye come back! Be off now!"

Ben knew it was little use arguing with a double-barreled shotgun. Thrusting both hands deep in his pockets, he

walked off across the square.

Dropping into the alley alongside Evans Tea Shoppe, the boy cut around the back of the stone buildings,

circling the square furtively until he arrived in the shade of some hawthorn trees behind the almshouse. He stood still

and silent there for several minutes, checking that his presence was unnoticed. Then, with a silent bound, he cleared

the back wall, sinking down in a crouch amid the long grass and weeds. Three warped and weatherbeaten wood

shutters covered the almshouse rear windows, with neither glass nor blinds behind them. Ben moved stealthily on all

fours, over to the center window. He found it was not difficult to spy inside through the ancient elmwood planks,

which were riddled with knotholes and cracks.

A high, circular stained-glass window let in a pool of sunlight in faded hues. The rest of the illumination was

provided by two storm lamps suspended from a crossbeam. A tall, heavyset, elderly man with a full grey beard,

wearing bell-bottom pants and a close-fitting dark blue seaman's jersey, with a spotted red-and-white neckerchief, was

seated at a table. Upon it was a welter of cardboard filing boxes and books, parchments and scrap paper. Around him,

the interior appeared to be covered in dust and draped with cobwebs. The man was poring over a document on the

table, leaning on one elbow, holding a pencil poised.

Suddenly he sat upright, moving a much-repaired pair of glasses from his face. He looked to the front door, as if

he had heard a noise from outside. Rising slowly, he crept to the door and placed an ear against it. From his pocket he

took a child's toy, a cheap green metal clicker in the shape of a frog, and taking a deep breath he bellowed out angrily,

"I know you're still out there! Shift yourself quick! I never miss with this shotgun! Ye'll get a full blast through this

door if ye don't move, I warn ye!" He clicked the tin frog twice. Ben wrinkled his face in amusement—it sounded just

like a shotgun. The old fraud!

Satisfied the intruder had fled, the big man went back to his table, where he lit a small paraffin stove and placed

a whistling kettle upon it. From a box under the table he brought forth a large enamel mug, brown cane sugar, and a

can of condensed milk. Whilst doing this, he sang in a fine husky baritone. Ben recognized the song as an old sea

shanty he was familiar with. He listened to the man sing:

"I thought I heard the cap'n say,

Go down you bloodred roses, go down!

Tomorrow is our sailin' day,

Go down you bloodred roses, go down!

O you pinks and posers,

Go down you bloodred roses, go down!"

The big fellow paused, scratching his beard thoughtfully, obviously having forgotten the rest of the words. With

the danger of being shot no longer a threat, Ben could not resist supplying a verse to help the singer's memory. So he

sang out through a knothole in a raucous voice.

"And now we're wallopin' 'round Cape Horn,

Go down you bloodred roses, go down!

I wish t'God I'd ne'er been born,

Go down you bloodred roses, go down!

O you pinks and posers,

Go down you bloodred roses, go down!"

The man began moving toward the shutter, a smile forming on his rough-hewn features as he took a turn with a

verse.

"There's only one thing botherin' me,

Go down you bloodred roses, go down!"

He paused. Ben knew what to do, he sang out the rest.

"To leave behind Miss Liza Lee,

Go down you bloodred roses, go down!"

Then they both sang the last two lines lustily together.

"O you pinks and posers,

Go down you bloodred roses, go down!"

The old fellow banged a huge callused hand against the shutter, causing Ben to jump. He banged it again,

laughing. "Hohohoho! That weren't no Chapelvale bumpkin singin' a good seafarin' shanty. They've all got one leg

longer'n the other from walkin' in plow furrows 'round here. Ahoy, mate, what was the first ship ye sailed in?"

Ben shouted through a knothole. "The Flying Dutchman, mate. What was yours?"

Placing his back against the shutters, the man slid down into a sitting position, overcome with laughter.

"Hohoho, if I'm as big a liar as you, 'twas the Golden Hind, with Sir Francis Drake as skipper. Hahaha!"

The boy laughed with him, shouting back a typical seafarer's reply. "And did you bring your old mother back a

parrot from Cartagena?"

Bolts were withdrawn from the shutters, and Ben found himself staring into a pair of eyes as blue as his own.

With a tattooed hand the man indicated a thick gold earring dangling from his right ear.

"Tell me, lad, why I'm wearin' this, 'tain't for fashion, is it?"

Ben shook his head. "No sir, that's in case they find your body washed up on a foreign shore, to pay for the

burial."

The old fellow helped him through the window and shook his hand vigorously. "Jonathan Preston, Jon to my

mates. Ship's carpenter, man an' boy, for fifty years. Served in both Royal and Merchant Navies with not a day's loss

of pay on my discharge books."

"Ben Winn, sir, visiting the village for a while, stopping at my aunt Winifred's house."

Jon produced another mug and wiped it clean. "Ho, then, better be watchin' me manners, seein' as you're the

owner's nephew. Kettle's boilin', mate. Time for tea, eh!"

They sat together at the table, sipping hot sweet tea. Jon watched the boy thoughtfully. "Ye seem to have a fair

maritime knowledge, m'boy. How d'ye come to know things only an old salt would know, eh?"

Ben had to resort to lies again, knowing the truth was too incredible for a normal person to believe. "Did a few

trips along the coast, Jon. I read a lot, too. Ever since I first picked up a book, I always liked to read about sailors and

the sea."

Jon's craggy face broke into a grin. "Well, now, 'tis the other way 'round with me, lad. Here's me been at sea

nigh on fifty years and I like studyin' the land an' its history. It was Cap'n Winn who gave me a berth. When I gave up

seafarin', he let me stay here, rent free. I'm a sort of caretaker, just keepin' an eye on the old place. After a while I got

bored, so I took myself 'round to the library. Mr. Braithwaite got me interested in local history, I'm very keen on it

now. Studying Chapelvale's past an' so on."

Ben cast an eye over the debris of papers and books on the table. "Aye, Jon, so I see. Perhaps you could give me

a few pointers. I've become quite interested, too, since staying with my aunt."

The old carpenter's voice became suddenly grave. "So, you might have heard what's goin' on hereabouts, lad. If

that barnacle Smithers an' his big-city cronies get their way, there won't be no village left to study. Rascals! They'll

turn the place into a quarry an' a cement factory!"

Ben took a sip of his tea. "I know, Jon, it's a real shame, mate, but I'm doing what I can to help Aunt Winnie.

Nobody else in Chapelvale seems to care. I don't think they're really aware of the situation. Either that or they're so

worried that they push it all to the back of their minds and hope it'll go away."

Jon patted Ben's back approvingly. "Well, thank the stars there's someone else besides myself interested in

helpin' the cap'n's wife. Y'are interested, aren't ye, boy?"

Ben did not need to reply, he merely stared straight into his new friend's eyes. Jon was taken aback at the

intensity of the blue-eyed boy's gaze; it seemed to hold a world of knowledge and wisdom, so much so that the older

man felt like a pupil in the presence of a teacher. Jon answered his own question.

"Right, I can see you are, Ben. Here, then, let me show ye what I've found out so far."

Rummaging through the boxes on the table, Jon found the one he wanted. It was made from sandalwood, the

label stating that it had once held cigars, Burmah Cheroots. He opened it and took out what appeared to be a folded

piece of thick, yellow paper.

"See this, 'tis real vellum, the kind of stuff that only very rich folk could afford to use. Want to know how old it

is, lad, well, listen an' I'll read it to ye. Mr. Braithwaite translated it from Latin, the kind that churchfolk used long ago.

Let me see, ah, here 'tis!"

From the cigar box he produced two pages, torn from a school exercise book. Squinting slightly, Jon read aloud.

" 'Given in this year of grace, Thirteen Hundred and Forty-one, by the hand of Bishop Algernon Peveril, chaplain to

his illustrious Majesty, Edward III, King of England. To my good friend in God, Caran De Winn, loyal servant to the

King, Captain and newly made Squire. Brother, I have marked the bounds of your land on a map. It will mark out the

boundaries of the acres granted to you by our King, for your heroic services at the Battle of Sluys, which resulted in

the defeat and capture of the French fleet. Chapelvale will be a fitting name for your property. I know you will receive

good help from the honest folk thereabout to build the church we have planned. Friend Caran, make the name of

Chapelvale and the Church of Saint Peter resound throughout the land. Thus will it add praise to the Lord, thanks to

our King and grace to my true friend, Caran De Winn. I will send, under guard, a wagon to you, when winter's snows

are cleared. It will contain the map, deeds, and title to your land, signed and sealed by the hand of our Monarch. There

will also be gifts to grace the altar of our church, treasures that I give freely to you as a mark of my admiration and

respect. Algernon Peveril, your friend at Court.' "

Jon looked rather proud of himself. "There now, lad, what d'ye make of that, eh?"

"That's marvelous, Jon. Where did you find the vellum?"

The carpenter pointed at the floor, which had been recently repaired. "Under some old floorboards I was fixin'.

'Twas in an old box, heavily sealed up with beeswax. A lucky discovery, eh, lad?"

Ben nodded. "Very lucky, mate, but will it stand up as proof of ownership? What happened to the King's signed

deeds and the treasure? Did Caran receive them?"

Swilling tea around in his mug, Jon replied. "I don't know yet, Ben, I have been lookin' 'round for more clues.

But 'tis difficult, I can tell ye. There was only one other thing in that box 'neath the floorboards, though it don't look

very helpful. See what ye think."

Jon took the last scrap of paper from his cigar box. "Nought but an old torn piece o' thin paper, with two little

holes burned in it an' a half line o' writin' on the bottom."

Jon noticed the boy's hands gripping the table edge, white-knuckled. "What's up, mate, are you all right?"

Jonathan Preston's eyes grew wide as the boy slowly drew an identical scrap of paper from his pocket and unfolded it.

"Great thunder, Ben, where did ye come by that?"

"In the spine of Cap'n Winn's family Bible!"

They stood staring at the two pieces of paper, fascinated.

Ben flourished a hand over them. "You're the senior historian, Jon, put them together!"

Jon's big workworn hands trembled as he reunited the two scraps. They fitted perfectly. The writing along the

bottom of the piece now read:

Lord, if it be thy will and pleasure,

Keep safe for the house of De Winn thy treasure.

They stared at the writing for a long time, racking their brains at the significance of it. Jon stroked his beard.

"Trou-ble is, it don't tell us what the treasure is or where to find it, though I'll wager whatever and wherever 'tis, the

deeds will be with it, Ben. We'll seek it out together, mate, just you an' me, eh?"

Ben accepted the old man's sturdy handshake, adding, "Well, not quite just us two, friend, there's others

interested. My two friends, Amy and Alex Somers. Then there's Aunt Winnie. I'll bet Mr. Braithwaite could be useful,

too. Oh, and one other, my dog Ned, he's a good searcher. Actually it was he who really found that paper. You'll like

him, Jon."

The old carpenter shook his head, chuckling. "I'm sure I will, shipmate, if he's anything like you! Alex and Amy

Somers and old Braithwaite, your aunt, too? Looks like we've got quite a crew. You sure you don't want to bring the

whole village along, Ben?"

The boy grinned. "Only if they want to come, Jon. I'm willing to take on any folk who'll try helping themselves,

instead of sitting 'round hoping the problem'll disappear."

Jon took out a battered but reliable pocket watch and consuited it. "Nearly four, time for proper tea. D'you like

corned beef sandwiches and some of Blodwen Evans's scones? I bought 'em yesterday, but they're still fairly fresh."

Ben remembered his four o'clock appointment. "I'd love to stay to tea, mate, but I've got to go somewhere. Tell

you what, I'll see you here tomorrow, say about eleven. Will it be all right if I bring my friends and my dog?"

Jon waved at Ben as he leapt up to the windowsill.

"Aye. See you in the mornin', then, partner!"

When Ben had gone, the old seaman sat looking at the two bits of paper. He had worked long and hard at trying

to defeat Smithers and help his old cap'n's wife, without an ounce of success. However, he felt with the arrival of the

strange lad that things were beginning to happen. Stroking his beard, he stared at the empty window space. It was as if

the blue-eyed boy had been sent to aid him by some mysterious power.

22.

CHAPELVALE VILLAGE SCHOOL WAS A SMALL, drab, greystone building with the year 1802 graven

over the door. Very basic, merely a couple of rectangular rooms with a corridor between them, it was typical of most

small village schools. The playground at its rear opened onto the back of the library, which had been built later and

was slightly grander. The library had mullioned windows, behind which Mr. Braithwaite could be seen studying a

catalogue at his desk. The school playground was hemmed by a low stone wall, with bushes growing over it. Wilf

Smithers stood, apparently alone on the dusty playground.

From the far side of the schoolyard, Amy and Alex hid behind a gable of the adjoining library, watching him.

All at once the village bully did a little hopskip, punching the air with both fists. A voice, obviously that of Regina

Wood-worthy, called out. "Give him the old one-two, Wilf!"

He turned to the thicket of lilacs growing over the far-side playground wall, hissing in a loud whisper. "Shuttup

and keep your heads down!"

Alex blanched with fear as he murmured to his sister. "That Wilf Smithers is a dirty liar, he was supposed to be

here on his own!"

The girl was about to reply when Ben strolled by not a foot from their hiding place. His lips hardly moved as he

spoke quietly. "Don't worry, pals. You're here, too. Hush now!"

Wilf came across the playground toward his victim, holding out his hand. As Ben shook it, the bully sneered.

"Well well, didn't think you'd have the nerve to show up!" He tightened his grip like a vise and gave a short whistle.

The Grange Gang clambered over the stone wall, surrounding Ben.

Smiling, Ben indicated them with a nod. "I see you've brought some help."

Regina poked a finger sharply into Ben's back. "It's you who's going to need the help, stupid!"

Keeping tight hold of his victim's hand, Wilf called out. "Any sign of that dog about?"

Tommo's squeaky voice reassured him. "Nah, it's all right, Wilf!"

Ben never blanched as Wilf applied more pressure to his hand. "Your note said you wanted to see me alone, just

to talk."

Wilf's eyes grew mean and narrow. "Did it, now? Well, I told a little fib. I'm going to teach you a lesson, to

keep your nose out of other people's business. That's if you've got any nose left when I'm done with you!"

Regina warned Wilf as the back library window opened. "Look out, it's old Braithee!"

Mr. Braithwaite had been studying in the library, notwithstanding the fact that it was Sunday. Time and tide did

not count in the absentminded scholar's scheme of things. He looked over his glasses at the young people in the

playground. "I say, er er, what's going on out there, er, not fighting I, er, hope! Not nice, er, fighting."

Regina called out in a little-girl voice. "Oh, no sir, we're only playing a game!"

The librarian-cum-schoolmaster scratched his bushy head. "Oh, er, very good, very good. Hmm, not nice, er,

fighting!" He shut the window and went back to his studies.

Ben suddenly stood on Wilf's toe, did a neat twist, and, releasing his hand from the bully's grip, he stood

grinning into the bigger boy's red face. "Hear that? It's not nice to fight, y'know!"

The sound of Wilf's teeth grinding together was audible as he leaped forward, swinging a fierce punch at his

adversary's face. He struck air. Ben was out of his way, holding up both palms open wide, his voice soothing and

reasonable.

"Steady on, friend, I don't want to fight you."

The gang were shouting out now, wildly excited.

"Knock his block off, Wilf!"

"Make his nose bleed!"

"Go on, Wilf, belt the little squirt one!"

Wilf charged like an enraged bull, swinging wildly with both fists. But each time, Ben either ducked or dodged

nimbly aside.

From behind the gable wall, Alex almost sobbed with disappointment. "Ben won't stand and fight, he's scared!"

Amy began to feel the same way as her brother. She stood out in the open, fists clenched, willing Ben to land

Wilf a blow each time the bully went staggering by. However, Ben kept up the same tactics, weaving around his

attacker, still open-handed.

"I told you, Wilf, I don't want to fight you!"

Wilf, breathing heavily, gasped out. "That's 'cos you're a coward. Come on, fight, you yellowbelly!"

This time he changed his assault, looping out a savage right. As Ben dodged it, Wilf kicked out just as Regina

pushed Ben in the back, sending him onto the kick. It caught his shin. The kick did not injure Ben greatly; however,

he decided it was unwise to leave his back uncovered.

Amy, with Alex behind her, came running toward the fray, shouting out, "Foul, foul! Keep your feet to yourself,

Smithers!"

Not wanting them caught up in the fight, Ben backed off until he was up against the schoolhouse wall. Shoving

aside Amy and Alex, Regina laughed gleefully. "Get 'round him quick! Hahaha, you've got him cornered, Wilf!"

She was right. Ben found himself against the wall with the others standing around in a half-circle. Wilf was

right in front of him—Ben could not go left, right, or back. Leaping forward, Wilf aimed a swinging right at his face.

Ben ducked, and there was a meaty thud, followed by an agonized scream. Amy went white, she could not see what

had gone on.

Wilf Smithers came howling and screeching out of the melee, holding his right elbow in his left hand, his face

the color of a beetroot. As he stopped and did a dance of pain on the spot, his right hand flapped uselessly.

Mr. Braithwaite came hurrying into the yard, his dusty gown swirling about him as he called out to the dancing

boy. "Er, er, what, er, seems to be the trouble, er, Smithers?"

Wilf had lost the power of intelligent speech and continued to scream and dance. Ben came forward, unhurt,

calmly explaining. "We were playing a game, sir, and he punched the wall by accident. I think his hand is hurt. Are

you all right, Wilf?"

Mr. Braithwaite showered dandruff around as he scratched his wiry mop furiously. "Hand, er, right, er,

whats-ername . . . Woodworthy. Go and get somebody, er, immediately. Yes, right away, er, I should think!"

Regina went dashing out of the schoolyard, straight into Mr. and Mrs. Evans, who were out for a stroll.

Blodwen Evans strode purposefully toward the speechless dancing boy, with her husband Dai trailing behind.

She took charge of the situation, addressing Mr. Braithwaite. "Indeed to goodness, what's possessin' the lad?"

"Er, ah, er, hand I should, er, think, yes!"

She brushed Mr. Braithwaite aside, grabbed Wilf by his injured hand, and felt it. He gave out a last shriek and

fainted. Blodwen Evans pursed her lips as she made a quick diagnosis. "Look, you, the lad's hand is broken! Dai, Mr.

Braithwaite, you'll 'ave to help me carry him to the chemist. He's closed, but we'll rattle the door 'til he opens."

She seized the unconscious Wilf's feet, glaring at the librarian. "Don't lift him by the right hand, man, take his

shoulders!" Between them they struggled out of the schoolyard, carrying their limp burden.

Regina turned on Ben immediately. "You're responsible for that. Couldn't fight him fair and square. Coward!"

Amy pushed herself between Regina and Ben. "Don't be silly, Wilf did that to himself!"

Regina took a swinging slap at Amy's face, but Ben's arm blocked it. He seemed to touch Regina at a point

between ear and neck. Instantly she rose on tiptoe as he kept up the pressure with a slightly bent forefinger. Amy was

amazed—the girl was standing rock-still, with her chin tilted upward and an expression of silent anguish on her face.

Ben's voice was soft, but with a hint of steel in it. "Listen to me, Regina, I've got you by a nerve point—painful,

isn't it? I don't like hurting anybody, so save yourself some pain and say that we must not fight and I'll let you go."

The big girl's jaw was clenched so tight that all she could manage was something that sounded like "Gnn, ee

nust nok kite!" Ben released her and she dashed off sobbing, with the rest of the Grange Gang trailing behind sullenly.

Alex was lost in admiration. "Where did you learn to do that, Ben? You could've licked Wilf with one finger.

Show me how you did it, go on, Ben!"

The flaxen-haired boy thrust his hands into his pockets, ignoring his friend. "Oh no, pal, you'd be going about

paralyzing anyone who came near you. What's the use of fighting, kicking, and punching another person just to prove

your point? It only ends up with both of you getting hurt and solving nothing. Come on, I'm due back for dinner soon,

have to get cleaned up. Don't want to disappoint Miz Winn."

They parted at the corner of the lane and turned. The dark-haired girl watched Ben lope off toward Mrs. Winn's

house. Alex looked at his older sister, puzzled. "So Ben isn't a coward?"

Amy shook her head, slowly. "Far from it!"

"Then why wouldn't he fight Wilf? He could have beat him easily with those secret things he knows."

Ben had now gone out of sight around the bend in the lane.

Amy gave her brother a long look before she replied. "You know, there's a lot more to Ben than either of us

imagine. He has a sort of air about him—confidence, that's it. He acts as if he can do a great deal of things. Of course

he could have beaten Wilf. I think he didn't fight because he knew he could win, but he didn't have to prove it to

himself. It must be good, to be like that. He didn't need us when he went to meet Wilf, but he let us come. He said he

needed us. You know, Alex, I think he was trying to give us a bit of confidence in ourselves. D'you see what I mean?"

Alex squinted his eyes. "Hmm, not quite, but one thing I do know, though. Our friend Ben is like nobody I've

ever met."

23.

THE BIG, LOPING LABRADOR MET BEN ON the way up to the house. He sniffed Ben's hand. "Where've

you been all afternoon, young master?"

The boy grinned as they ambled along together, exchanging thoughts. "You were sniffing to see if I'd had

anything nice to eat while I was out. Well, I didn't. I've made friends with the man at the almshouse. His name is Jon,

you'll like him. He's not a bit mad, like they'd said. I'll take you over to meet him tomorrow." Ben roughed the back of

his dog's neck. "Our friend Wilf, I think he's hurt his hand, took a swipe at me and punched a brick wall."

Ned interrupted. "Huh, I know that." Ben stopped. "How'd you know?"

The black Labrador winked one eye. "Horatio took me on a guided tour of Chapelvale. We found the place

where that Smithers man lives, that lad of his, too. It's a big new house in its own grounds, up past the railway station.

I was sniffing about outside, when Dai Evans and another fellow, the chemist I think, brought young Wilf home to his

parents. Hoho, he must have given that wall a right old whack! You should see the wads of bandage and the splint on

his arm—he was the color of sour milk. Anyhow, before I could stop him, that half-witted cat followed them into the

house. I got as far as the driveway, when Mr. Smithers came roaring out with a garden rake, so I got out of the way

fast. Well, I went around the back of the house to see if I could locate Horatio. Huh, there he was, being fed a saucer

of milk by a nice girl called Hetty.

"Now, there's a girl I could take to. She stroked me a bit, said I was a nice fellow, which I am of course, and

gave me a great gammon hambone, with lots of meat on it. Then she said she was finished working for the day and

put on her hat and coat. She knew Horatio. I think he pops over there regular and lets Hetty feed him, the furry little

fraud. Anyhow, she picked Horatio up and said she'd better get him back home. So I went along with them both. Huh,

I notice she didn't offer to carry me!"

Ben tweaked Ned's tail. "I don't blame her. Where is she now?"

The dog shambled up the driveway to the house. "Inside with Winnie, you'd better go and meet her."

Hetty was a thin, angular woman, clad in a long bottle-green coat with an old fox-fur collar, lace-up kneeboots,

and a worn green felt hat that had seen better days. She sat at the kitchen table with Mrs. Winn, a pot of tea and some

sliced fruitcake between them as they chatted animatedly. Mrs. Winn introduced her to Ben.

"Ah, Ben, this is Hetty Sullivan, an old friend of mine. Her mother used to be maid here when I was not long

married and my son Jim was young. Hetty is the maid up at the Smithers house now. She often calls in for tea and a

chat on her way home. Come and sit with us."

The boy pulled up a chair, listening to Hetty's tales of woe as Mrs. Winn poured tea for him. Hetty was one of

those people who always had a tale to tell, usually in the manner of a complaint.

"Smithers! Don't talk to me about that family! 'Hetty fetch this, Hetty do that.' I'm at their beck and call every

second. I wish I could work for you, Miz Winn, like my old mum used to. I always liked this 'ouse."

Mrs. Winn poured more tea for Hetty, remarking wistfully, "I wish I could afford for you to work here, Hetty

my dear, but I'm only a widow on a Royal Navy pension. I can understand you not liking to work for Smithers—I

wouldn't fancy the job."

Hetty pursed her lips as she sipped her tea. "No more you wouldn't, marm! That Obadiah Smithers, nasty bossy

man, always asking me t'leave the room, so he can talk business, if you please! Then there's the other young madam,

Miss Maud Bowe, wants waitin' on 'and an' foot. Wants to get back to Lunnon, that's what she needs t'do. An' that

young Master Wilfred, dirty towels, muddy bootmarks, bad manners. Cheeky wretch, you should see the mess he

leaves the bathroom in every day. But his mother won't hear a word said agin him. No, she drifts about there, givin'

her orders like she was a bloomin' duchess or somethin': 'I think we'll have the gammon for lunch, Hetty, boil those

potatoes until they're floury, Hetty, you may pour the tea, Hetty.' Humph! An' her the daughter of a Yorkshire sack an'

bag maker. Oh, I notice these things, y'know. There ain't many secrets in the Smithers 'ouse that Hetty Sullivan ain't

over'eard!"

Ben nodded sympathetically. "You haven't had it easy working for them, eh, Hetty?"

The maid primped at her lank, mousy hair. "I certainly 'ave not, Master Ben!"

Ben seemed very concerned at the maid's plight. "What'll you do for a job if Smithers carries out his plan and