Dinny sniffed the air, wiggling his claws. “Buharr, they’s watter nearby, likely a pond or tarn. May’ap us’ll catcher a liddlefish. Be gudd eaten, hurr.”

Martin looked sideways at Gonff. “How does he know there’s water near? I can’t smell a thing.”

The mousethief shrugged. “Neither can he, matey. Moles probably feel it through the earth with their digging claws.”

Dinny nodded wisely. “O arr, us’ns do smell lots o’ things wi’ us claws.”

Gonff winked at the warrior mouse. “That’s the nice thing about moles, they always have a sensible explanation which we can all understand.”

The three friends laughed aloud. Dinny proved as good at predicting as Gonff. Midday found the travelers at the edge of a large pond. Bulrushes and reeds surrounded the margin, small water lilies budded on the surface. The glint of silver scales beneath the water promised good fishing. At first Martin was loth to stop but, realizing the valuable addition a fish would make to their supplies, he called a halt. While his friends went about fishing, the warrior posted himself on guard to watch for their pursuers.

Dinny sat on the edge of the bank, immersing his paws in the shallows with exclamations of delight.

“Oo arr, oo bliss ’n’ joys. Hurr, this be the loif, Gonffen!”

The mousethief had cast a line baited with a tiny red mudworm. In seconds it was snatched by a voracious stickleback. “Ha, look, matey,” he called. “I’ve got a bite! Come to Gonff, old greedyguts.”

Martin crept up behind them. He placed a paw gently on each of his friends’ shoulders as he whispered to them, “Ssshhh. Listen to me. We are in great danger. Don’t make a sound, if you value our lives!”

Skipper sat inside the curve of a big hollow log. He faced a slim gray otter, trying hard not to look where the strange creature’s tail had once been.

“So then, Mask, how are you keeping, my brother?” he asked.

The Mask nibbled at some otter delicacies that his brother had thoughtfully brought along.

“Oh, I get by, Skip. Sometimes I’m a squirrel, sometimes a fox. Ha, I was even a half-grown badger for a while.”

Skipper shook his head in amazement, gazing around the hollow log where the master of disguises lived alone. Many curious objects were carefully stowed there: make-believe tails, false ears, a selection of various whiskers.

The Mask watched Skipper with his odd pale eyes. Seizing a few things, he turned his back and made some swift secret adjustments. When he turned around, Skipper’s mouth fell open in disbelief.

“Look, Skip. I’m a squirrel again!”

The otter chieftain marveled; this creature in front of him was surely an aged squirrel—thin, graying—but undeniably a squirrel, from its bushy tail and erect ears, right to the two large front upper teeth.

“Strike me tops’ls, Mask. How d’you do it?”

“Oh, it’s no great thing,” the Mask chucked quietly. “Actually, I’d look more like a treeflyer if I took a little more time and care with this disguise. This is only a quick change to amuse you.”