Swiftly they cut beaters of green juniper and lupin and set about tackling the blazes that were springing up all about the edges of the forest clearing. Each creature beat furiously, knowing their lives depended on putting out the woodland fire. Hot dry summer was the worst of all possible times to be caught in a woodland blaze, and once established it could devastate a whole wood, burning unchecked. Coughing and spluttering, their faces blackened by smoke, eyes red-rimmed and sore, they fought each fresh outbreak until the flames were subdued.

Spriggat kicked dust on a spark as he leaned heavily on Arula. “Whoof! I’m gettin’ too long-seasoned for this sort o’ game. Where’s Samkim?”

“Over here, look what I’ve caught!” The young squirrel tugged a limping snarling rat. He had his bowstring looped about the creature’s neck. “I must have whacked him good and broke his footpaw. He didn’t manage to escape with the others.”

Spriggat dealt the unfortunate rat a hefty cuff and pressed some lupins into his claw. “Fire-raiser, eh? Don’t snarl at me like that, you scum. Take that.” He gave the rat another good buffet.

“Right, get beating, go on! All round this clearing until there’s no more chance of a burn-up. And just let me find one spark, that’s all, just one—I’ll give you such a beating that the lumps’ll have lumps on top o’ them!”

Arula took the bow. Playing the rat on the attached bowstring like a fish on a line, she kept him going around the clearing, hunting for any traces of sparks they had missed.

Exhausted, Samkim and Spriggat sat down on the log. The young squirrel expressed his disappointment.

“Well, we made a right old frog’s dinner of that. You must have chirruped like a cricket too early. Arula wasn’t in position and I was barely ready. What made you do it, Spriggat?”

The cricket trundled out from under the log, chirruped twice at them and waddled off angrily into the night.

Samkim covered his eyes, realizing what had happened. “Oh no!”

Spriggat golloped a passing moth and began chuckling. “Ohohoho! Thank ye kindly, Samkim. ’Tis a tribute to my realistic cricket chirrup. Ohohohohohahaha!”

The hedgehog’s laughter was infectious. Soon the three of them were doubled up pounding the log with their paws.

“Ahahahaha! Ooh dear! And there was Arula, countin’ and whackin’. Ninety-seven, fifty-eight, twenty-three, take that an’ that, hahaha. An’ you ran smack-bang into that rat. Oh heeheehee! You should see the way your snout’s swelled up. Whoohahahaha!”

“Hurr hurr hurr hurr! An’ thurr wurr oi, beatin’ up a log, hurrhurr. It wurr a gudd job ’ee log were dead, or oi’ da killed et, hurr!”

When the laughter had died down, Samkim kicked the dust gloomily. “Aye, but the fox got away with our sword. What’s to laugh at about that? He could be anywhere by now.”