The woodlands dripped water all morning as the party followed a trail left by Splikker and his scouts. Song and Dippler walked slightly ahead of the main group. Suddenly, a big otter emerged from the trees and approached Log a Log.

The shrew scarcely gave him a glance. “Mornin’, Skip.”

The big otter returned the greeting noncommittally. “Mornin’, Log.”

Log a Log nudged Janglur. “This’s Skipper of otters. Skip, meet Janglur Swifteye. We’re goin’ to Redwall.”

Janglur nodded at Skipper, who winked back in reply.

“So’m I, matey. Me an’ the crew went over the waterfalls, three days from ’ere, ’cos of the hot dry weather. Huh! Hot’n’dry? Never expected this liddle lot. Any’ow, I’ve left the crew at the falls havin’ fun. I decided to drop back this way an’ see if everythin’ was shipshape over at the Abbey after the storm. Where’s yore boats, mate? ’Tisn’t like the Guosim to be hoofin’ it through the woods.”

Log a Log rolled his eyes skyward, making light of his misfortune. “Oh, we lent ’em to a crowd o’ water rats an’ a couple o’ Marlfoxes. Don’t worry, though, we’ll get ’em back an’ make those vermin pay for the hire of six good logboats, take my word for it!”

The conversation was interrupted by Splikker, who came trotting back on his own tracks, gesturing with a paw over his shoulder. “Left the scouts further along the trail, Chief. There was all sorts o’ noises comin’ from the edge of the marshy area. Come an’ see wot we’ve found. Y’won’t believe yore eyes!”

He turned and ran off the way he had come. Their curiosity roused, the entire party hurried after him.

Florian Dugglewoof Wilffachop made a brave figure as he stood on the seat of the half-submerged cart like the captain of a sinking ship. In one paw he held the long sword with which Runktipp had menaced the Marlfoxes. It was only a trick stage prop and kept bending in the middle of its blade. Notwithstanding this drawback, Florian brandished it at the grinning shrews.

“Laugh all y’like, you scurvy villains, you’ll not take me alive! By the cringe an’ fur you won’t, not while there’s breath left in this poor body to defend the ladies an’ the infant, wot!”

One of the shrews laid his rapier on the ground. “We ain’t gonna hurt ye, mate, ye’ve got my word on it . . . Yowch!”

Dwopple hung over the back of the cart. Loading another stone into his small sling, he announced with an innocent smile, “I’m a h’infant. I shooted ya wi’ me slinger. Heeheehee!”

The shrew rubbed furiously at his swelling nose. “You liddle pot-scrapin’ . . . , that ain’t fair! We came ’ere in peace!”