beach and let the sun dry them. Clean and refreshed,
Jon-Tom made a fire and temporary shelter of driftwood
while Mudge and Roseroar went scavenging. Life in abun-
dance clung to the shore.
The two unlikely hunters returned with a load of crusta-
ceans the size of king crabs. Three of these—killed,
cracked, and cooked over an open fire—were sufficient to
fill even the tigress’s belly. This time Jon-Tom didn’t even
twitch as he snuggled up against the amazon’s flank.
Mudge curled up on the far side of the fire. For the first
time since they’d fled Malderpot, they all slept peacefully.
VI
As usual, Mudge woke first. He sat up, stretched, and
yawned, his whiskers quivering with the effort. The sun
was just up and the last smoke fleeing the firepit. Some-
thing, some slight noise, had disturbed the best night’s rest
he’d had in weeks.
He heard it again, no mistake. Curious, he dressed
quickly and tiptoed past his still somnolent companions.
As he made his way over a sandy hillock flecked with
beach grass, he slowed. A cautious glance over the crest
revealed the source of the disturbance.
They were not alone on the beach. A small single-
masted sailing craft was grounded on the gravel. Four
large, ugly-looking specimens of varying species clustered
around a single, much smaller individual. Two of them
were arguing over a piece of clothing. Mudge shrugged
mentally and prepared to retreat. None of his business.
What had awakened him was the piteous cry for help of
the person trapped among the ruffians. It was an elderly