“It wouldn’t have mattered. We were occupied with
saving Folly.”
“What now?” Roseroar wondered as she hefted her
own massive pack.
Jon-Tom considered. “We can’t hang around here. Now
the cops have two reasons for picking us up. They might
go easy on us over the Friends of the Street business, but
not about this. For one thing, that officer in charge is a
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Alan Dean Foster
little too chummy with the citizens Mudge cheated. I’m
not anxious to tour the inside of Snarken’s prison.”
“Give me a break, mate,” whined the otter. “If you
‘adn’t been so set on goin’ after “er”—he pointed toward
Folly—”we’d ‘ave cleared this dump ‘ours ago.” He
glared disgustedly at the girl. “I blame meself for it,
though. Should’ve kept me concerns to meself.” He added
hopefully, “We could still sell ‘er.”
“No.” Jon-Tom put an arm around her shoulders. “Fol-
ly stays with us until we can find her a safe haven.”
“I could suggest something,” she murmured softly. He
moved his. arm.
“Right then,” he said briskly. “No point in hanging
around here waiting for the cops to find us.” He started
back the way they’d come. Mudge followed, kicking at the
garbage.
“Suits me, mate. Looks now like we’re goin’ to ‘ave to
walk all the way to this bleedin’ Crancularn. Might as well
get going. Only don’t let’s go spend the ‘ole trip bJamin’
poor oP Mudge for the fact that we ain’t ridin’ in comfort.”
“Fair enough. And you don’t blame me for this.” So
saying, he booted the otter in the rump so hard it took
Roseroar’s strength to extract him from the pile of barrels