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,
