Dodie Smith - The 101 Dalmatians

“It was, yesterday afternoon—when I last saw them. Lively as crickets and fat as butter, they were.”

“Could we see them—just a glimpse—before we eat or sleep?” asked Missis.

“We can’t climb trees, as Mrs. Willow can,” said Pongo.

“You won’t need to,” said the cat. “The Colonel’s made other arrangements. But you can’t see the puppies before they are let out for exercise, and that’ll be hours yet. Those Badduns are late risers. Well, come along and meet the Colonel.”

“A human Colonel?” asked Missis, puzzled.

“Bless me, no. The Colonel’s our Sheepdog. A perfect master of strategy—you ask the sheep. He calls me his lieutenant.”

The cat was now leading them along the road. Pongo asked how far it was to the farm.

“Oh, we’re not going to the farm now. The Colonel’s spending the night at the Folly. Crazy place, but it’s coming in very useful.”

The darkness was thinning. Soon the road ran across a stretch of heath on which, still some way ahead of them, a dark mass stood out against the gradually lightening sky. After a few moments Pongo saw that the dark mass was a great stone wall.

“There you are,” said the cat. “Your puppies are behind that.”

“It looks like the wall of a prison,” said Pongo.

“ Nasty place,” said the cat. “The Colonel will tell you its history.”

She led them from the road over the rough grass of the heath. As they drew nearer, Pongo saw that the wall curved—as the wall of a round tower curves. Above it rose the trunks of tall trees, their bare branches black against the sky.

“You’d think there would be a castle, at least, inside that huge wall,” said the cat. “And they do say there was going to be, only something went wrong. All that’s there now—Well, you can see for yourself.”

She led the way to the rusty iron gates, and Pongo and Missis peered through the bars. There was now enough light for them to see some distance. Beyond a stretch of grass as wild as the surrounding heath, they saw the glint of water—but, strangely, it seemed to be black water. Then they saw the reason why. Reflected in it was a black house.

It was the most frightening house Pongo and Missis had ever seen. Many of the windows in its large, flat face had been bricked up and those that were left looked like eyes and a nose, with the front door for a mouth. Only there were too many eyes, and the nose and the mouth were not quite in the right places, so that the whole face looked distorted.

“It’s seen us!” gasped Missis—and it really did seem as if the eyes of the house were staring at them from its cracked and peeling black face.

“Well, that’s Hell Hall for you,” said the cat.

She moved on and they followed her, round the curving wall. After a few minutes they saw a tower rising high above the tree-tops. It was built of rough grey stone, like the wall, and was rather like a church tower. But there was no church. The tower simply jutted out of the wall. Some of the narrow windows were broken, and their stonework was crumbling. The place was not yet a ruin but looked as if it quite soon might be one.

“Well may they call it a Folly!” said the cat.

Missis did not know what the word meant, but Pongo had seen a Folly before and was able to explain. The name is often given to expensive, odd buildings built for no sensible reason, buildings that it was a foolishness to build.

The cat miaowed three times, and there were three answering barks from inside the tower. A moment later came the sound of a bolt being drawn back.

“The Colonel’s the only dog I ever knew who could manage bolts with his teeth,” said the cat proudly.

Pongo instantly decided he would learn to manage bolts.

“Come in, come in,” said a rumbling voice, “but let me have a look at you first. There’s not much light inside yet.”

An enormous Sheepdog came out. Pongo saw at once that this was none of your dapper military men but a lumbering old soldier man, possibly a slow thinker but widely experienced. His eyes glittered shrewdly and kindly through his masses of grey-and-white woolly hair.

“Glad to see you’re large Dalmatians,” he said approvingly. “I’ve nothing against small dogs, but the size of all breeds should be kept up. Well, now, what’s been happening to you? There was a rare to-do on the Twilight Barking last night, when no one had any news of you.”

He led the way into the Folly, while Pongo told of their day with the Spaniel.

“Sounds a splendid fellow,” said the Colonel. “Sorry he’s not on the Barking. Now, tuck in, you two. I provided breakfast just in case you turned up.”

There was plenty of good farmhouse food and a deep round tin full of water.

“How did you get it all here?” asked Pongo astonished.

“I rolled the round tin from the farm—with the food inside it,” said the Colonel. “I stuffed the tin with straw so that the food wouldn’t fall out. And then I borrowed a small seaside bucket from my young pet, Tommy—the dear little chap would lend me anything. I can carry that bucket by its handle. Six trips to the pond on the heath got the water here—lucky it thawed yesterday. Drink up! Plenty more where that came from.”

The cat acted as hostess during the meal. Pongo was careful always to address her as “Mrs. Willow.”

“What’s this Mrs. Willow business?” said the Colonel suddenly.

“Pussy Willow happens to be my given name,” said the cat. “And I’m certainly a Mrs.”

“You’ve got too many names,” said the Colonel.

“You’re ‘Puss’ because all cats are ‘Puss.’ You’re ‘Pussy Willow’ because it’s your given name. You’re ‘Tib’ because most people call you that. I call you ‘Lieutenant’ or ‘Lieutenant Tib.’ I thought you liked it.”

“I like ‘Lieutenant’ but not ‘Lieutenant Tib.’ ”

“Well, you can’t be ‘ Mrs . Willow’ on top of everything else. You can’t have six names.”

“I’m entitled to nine names as I’ve nine lives,” said the cat. “But I’ll settle for ‘Lieutenant Willow’—with ‘Puss’ for playful moments.”

“Right,” said the Colonel. “And now we’ll show our guests their sleeping quarters.”

“Oh, please,” begged Missis. “Couldn’t we get just a glimpse of the puppies before we sleep?”

The cat shot a quick look at the Colonel and said, “I’ve told them the pups won’t be out for hours yet.”

“Besides, you’d get too excited to sleep,” said the Colonel. “You must both have a good rest before you start worrying.”

“Worrying?” said Pongo sharply. “Is something wrong?”

“I give you my word there is nothing wrong with your puppies,” said the Colonel.

Pongo and Missis believed him—and yet they both thought there was something odd about his voice, and about the look the cat had given him.

“Now up we go,” the Colonel went on briskly.

“You’re sleeping on the top floor because that’s the only floor where the windows aren’t broken. Want a ride Lieutenant Wib—I mean Lieutenant Tillow—oh, good heavens, cat!”

“If there’s one thing I object to being called, it’s plain ‘cat,” said the cat.

“Quite right. I don’t like being called plain ‘dog,’ ” said the Colonel. “I apologize, Lieutenant Willow. Now jump on my back unless you want to walk.”

The cat jumped on the Colonel’s back and held on by his long hair. Pongo had never before seen a cat jump on a dog’s back with friendly intentions. He was deeply impressed—both by the Colonel’s trustfulness and the cat’s trustworthiness.