Fresh air, just one breath, he wished, one lungful of good clean air.

Skipper held Martin tighter as he began to wriggle in panic. Bubbles of air were escaping from his mouth, an iron band was crushing his skull. Why was Skipper drowning him?

Martin opened his mouth to shout, but the water came pouring in. With a huge rush accompanied by much barking and shouting, the otters broke the surface, shaking their coats.

Skipper hefted Martin’s body and tossed him out upon the bank. The warrior mouse lay coughing and gasping, gulping in vast quantities of clean fresh air. Never again would he take such a wondrous gift for granted.

All around him otters were whooshing playfully in and out of the water, ducking one another and generally behaving as if the whole thing were a great lark. Martin looked about until he sighted Gonff. Immediately he dashed across to his friend. Gonff had not fared as well as he on the underwater journey; the little thief lay face down on the bank, his body looked forbiddingly limp and still. Root, the big otter who had borne Gonff underwater, began pushing and pumping at Gonff’s inert form with his strong forepaws.

Martin felt a surge of panic. “Is he all right? He’s not drowned? He’ll live, won’t he?”

Root laughed and gave Martin a huge wink. “Bless yer life, matey, he’s fine. Little thief, stealin’ our river water like that. Here, he’s comin’ around now.”

A moment later Gonff was spluttering and shaking indignantly. “Root, you great clodhopping water monster, I’m sure you took the long way around to get here. Have I coughed all that water back? Yuk! Bet I lowered the river level by a foot or two, matey. Oh, hello Martin. Well, how d’you like Camp Willow?”

Martin had not looked at his surroundings. Now that the danger was past, he took stock of where they had beached. It was a large, sandy, shelflike area, the roof of which was a mass of gnarled willow roots. Phosphorescence from the swift-flowing water palely illuminated the cave system of the underground bank. A canal ran through the middle of Camp Willow, emanating out of the gloomy darkness of hidden caves and bolt holes in the rear.

Skipper watched proudly as Martin gazed about. “You won’t find no better ’ccommodation for an otter anywhere, Martin. Camp Willow was built by otter paws.”

Martin nodded shrewdly. “A right fine job they did of it, too, Skipper.”

The Skipper of otters swelled out his barrel-like chest. “’Andsome of you to say so, mate, but belay awhile and I’ll call muster.”

It soon became apparent that three of the crew were dead, possibly four; nobody could account for the fact that a young female called Spring was missing. Skipper’s face was grim as he called two young males, Duckweed and Streamer, to search the river for the missing one. With barely a ripple, the two plunged back into the water and were gone.