Abbess Vale looked to her friend. “Very short notice for a Nameday. Could you cope, Faith?”

Mrs. Spinney straightened her apron and mobcap in a businesslike manner. “Ready an’ willin’ to try, Vale!”

At this they all gave a rousing cheer. Tudd Spinney tripped on his stick and fell, and little Dumble got overexcited and leaped over Tudd, straight into the pond. Thrugan waded swiftly in and hauled the dripping infant out.

*   *   *

After breakfast the word was all over the Abbey. Over at the south wallsteps young creatures whooped and jumped with delight, Samkim and Arula among them.

“It’s tomorrow! Hooray! The Nameday’s tomorrow!”

“There’s going to be a party! We’re going to have a party!”

Clad in a clean dry smock, Dumble led them, marching up the steps and along the ramparts, chanting the traditional rhyme which young ones recited in anticipation of the feast.

“Food to eat and games to play.

Tell me why, tell me why.

Serve it out and eat it up.

Have a try, have a try.

Nameday, Nameday, fun and game day,

Come, Brother, Sister, join our play.

This season has a name!”

The great Joseph Bell pealed out happily over the sunny morn, and birds twittered in excitement over the joyous din. Old Abbeydwellers who were not busy in the kitchens gathered on the lawn to watch the young ones and remember long-ago Namedays they had enjoyed taking part in.

*   *   *

Other creatures outside Redwall heard the sounds of celebration that morning—Dingeye and Thura, the two stoats who had deserted Ferahgo’s army some weeks earlier. They lay in the ditch on the opposite side of the path which skirted the west wall. Days and nights of roaming the west flatlands, scavenging, begging and thieving to eke out their mean existence showed on their gaunt faces. Dingeye was sleeping in the warmth of the morning sun, dreaming of roast meat and red wine, when Thura shook him.

“Lissen, can yer ’ear that mucker?”

Dingeye sat up. He rubbed his face with a ragged sleeve and waggled a paw in his ear to clear it, cocking his head on one side. Gradually his ugly face split into a crooked grin, and he waved his paw in time with the chanting.

“Yersss, yersss indeedy! Sounds like a good ol’-fashioned whoopdedoo. Wot d’you make of it, mucker?”

Thura was chewing a blade of grass. His stomach growled loudly, and he pulled a face and spat out the grass. “Erm erm, I’d say it soun’s the same ter me as it do ter you. Somebeast ringin’ billyo out of a bell, a load of young uns settin’ up a racket. All soun’s very nice, though. ’Ere, wot d’you reckon that place is, mucker?”

“It’s an abbey.”

“A nabby? Wot’s a nabby?”