The young hare demolished his second portion of apple pudding and licked the spoon clean. “No bother, old Log-a-thing. Scoffin’ is me fav’rite sport, wot!”

“Rabbits can’t scoff, it takes a shrew to do real scoffin’.” The loud remark came from Tubgutt, who was sneering openly at them across the table.

Pikkle chuckled as he waved his spoon. “Maybe rabbits can’t scoff, m’ fat friend, but I’m Pikkle Ffolger, a hare from Salamandastron, and I’ll scoff you under the table any day in the season!”

Tubgutt stood up, his face dark with temper. “Nobeast can outscoff Tubgutt of the Guosssom!”

Pikkle turned to Log-a-log. “May I?”

Log-a-log nodded. “Certainly, Pikkle. But watch out for Tubgutt—he’s sly. I’ve noticed that he was waiting to challenge you, so he has hardly touched any food.”

Pikkle shrugged. “Well, I only did a quick practice scoff m’self.”

*   *   *

A table that was formed from an old oak stump in the center of the cave was cleared. Seated at it, Pikkle and Tubgutt faced each other as Log-a-log stated the rules.

“Do both contestants agree to hot spiced apple pudding?”

Both the protagonists nodded and picked up their spoons.

Log-a-log waved a paw to the servers as he continued, “It is a contest to a pawstill, then. Bowley the cook will count the dishes emptied by each creature. Shrewbeer may be drunk while eating. No half-finished dishes will count, and no throwing food on the floor or hiding it in clothing. First one unable to raise his spoon from the bowl must admit defeat. Make it a good clean scoff and best of luck to you both. Spoons ready . . . then begin!”

Servers fought their way to the table through the throng of Guerrilla Shrews packing round the two contestants. Steaming hot spiced apple puddings were stacked at its center as hare ate against shrew. Tubgutt went to it in a rush, spooning out three bowls of pudding in record time, his fat jaws working madly as the spoon plowed up and down in a blur. Pikkle paced himself, eating slow but big mouthfuls, chewing each morsel with relish. A large contingent of the shrews began cheering for Tubgutt. Mara stood between Log-a-log and Nordo, viewing the proceedings from a ledge some distance away.

Tubgutt had downed five bowls to Pikkle’s two. Nordo was beginning to look worried.

“That Tubgutt—look at the speed of him! He’s picking up his sixth bowl. What’s the matter with Pikkle? He’s awfully slow, Mara.”

The badger maid merely smiled. “Don’t fret yourself. Pikkle can hold his own with creatures twice his size. He’s eating slowly because he’s enjoying it. Tubgutt may be fast, but he’s no Pikkle Ffolger. You watch!”