[Flying Dutchman 01] - Castaways of the Flying Dutchman

BEN AND NED WERE WALKING ALONG together, 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 was taking its 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!”