Of course, there wasn’t much they could do about the people they had eaten, but by and large they had been unpopular anyway, so no one minded very much.

  ‘Well, well, an adventure with hardly any fighting,’ said Ralph, as the three left the castle next day. Everyone cheered as they passed through the gates.

  ‘I’d have shown the dragons a thing or two if there had been,’ growled Fortnight, and tripped over his sword.

  They were still laughing when they disappeared over the hills.

  The Gnomes from Home

  Mr Humphrey Cosy’s trouble started when he built a rockery in his front garden.

  It was a splendid affair. He built it out of concrete lumps and planted it with a Kwikgro Garden Centre £2 Choice Rockery Plants Assortment. In front of it was a little pond.

  Then Mr Cosy bought the gnomes. There were three of them. There was a plastic one in a red hat. He sat by the pond. Then there was the concrete gnome, in magnificent yellow trousers. Finally, there was an old stone gnome with a chipped ear and an unpleasant smirk, who was sitting on a bright green frog.

  ‘Right,’ thought Mr Cosy, as he went in for his tea, ‘that’ll make old Jones next door go green with envy, him and his thatched bird table.’

  A week went by.

  On Friday, Mr Cosy came home from the office to find his wife Agnes crouching in the hall and peering through the letterbox.

  ‘Hullo—’ he began.

  ‘Shhhh,’ she hissed. ‘There’s something moving on the rockery!’

  ‘A cat perhaps?’ enquired Mr Cosy.

  ‘No. I think it’s a little man in a green hat.’

  ‘Mr Brown at Number twenty-six has a sort of greeny-blue trilby—’

  ‘He’s three inches high!’

  ‘Oh, I would say on the contrary that Mr Brown is at least five foot—’

  Agnes stood up slowly and advanced on her husband.

  ‘Look,’ she said, in an odd voice. ‘Out there on your rockery is a little man in a green hat. He has been there all day. He has walked round all the gnomes. He has got a very shifty look about him. If you don’t get rid of him, I shall scream.’

  And she stormed off into the kitchen and slammed the door.

  Mr Cosy wandered out to the rockery. The little man was sitting on a stone by the edge of the pond, smoking a pipe.

  ‘Evening, squire,’ it said. ‘Nice little old day it’s turned out to be, eh?’

  Mr Cosy nodded, turned round, and walked slowly indoors. He met his wife in the kitchen. They looked at each other.

  ‘He smokes a pipe,’ said Mr Cosy.

  ‘I know,’ said Mrs Cosy.

  For the rest of the evening, they took it in turns to watch through the letterbox.

  ‘I suppose it’s quite rare to have a real gnome turn up on a rockery,’ said Mr Cosy, as they went to bed.

  ‘There is that, I suppose. When Mr Jones next door put up his bird table not even a sparrow went near it for a week,’ said Mrs Cosy.

  ‘I mean, it makes our rockery rather select. It rather sets it apart from common rockeries,’ added Mr Cosy. ‘Where are you going, Agnes?’ Mrs Cosy had put on her dressing gown with a purposeful air.

  ‘I’m going to put a saucer of bread and milk out for the little dear,’ said Mrs Cosy.

  Next morning a sign had been put up in front of the stone gnome. It said:

  STATELY GNOMES OF ENGLAND

  (P. H. Gimlet, prop.)

  See the Amazing Petrified Concrete Grotto!

  Marvel at the Terrible Green Frog!

  Boat Trips Around the Water Lily!

  A Feast of Fun for All the Family!

  In addition, a red and white mushroom had grown up by the pond. It had little doors and windows. The little man was sitting outside it in a miniature deckchair.

  Mr Cosy, who had been pruning his roses, read the sign carefully. Then he looked down at the little man, who grinned at him.

  ‘Are you P. H. Gimlet?’ asked Mr Cosy.

  ‘That’s me, squire,’ said the little man. ‘Of course, this is only a start. What I really want is a wildlife park, that people can drive through without leaving their cars.’

  Mr Cosy went and told his wife.

  ‘It’ll be nice for him to have some of his little friends along,’ she said. ‘I can’t see what you are worried about.’

  There was a knock at the door. On the doorstep was a full-sized man with an embarrassed expression, who said he was from Town and Country Coach Tours. A large luxury coach was parked at the kerb.

  ‘We had this telephone call saying we was to run regular coach tours here,’ said the driver.

  He stepped aside so that Mr Cosy could see the garden and added: ‘The fare for this little lot comes to twenty-six pounds and the best of luck to you, mate.’

  The garden was full of gnomes. There were gnomes on the lawn. Gnomes climbed all over the rockery. Baby gnomes were running amok. Several grey-beard gnomes were fishing in the little pool. Crowds of gnomes were being taken on conducted tours of the garden ornaments.

  ‘I shan’t pay!’ screamed Mr Cosy. ‘Go and see P. H. Gimlet!’

  All that afternoon gnomes kept knocking on the door and asking for drinks of water.

  Finally, Mr Cosy could stand it no longer. He strode out to the toadstool by the pond – or rather he tried to stride but because of the gnome picnic parties and sunbathers that were all round the pond it was more like a hop – and banged on the roof.

  ‘Come on out, P. H. Gimlet, you scoundrel!’ he bawled. ‘I don’t like unpleasantness, but I want my garden back!’

  The toadstool quivered and the front door fell off.

  ‘These mushroom development places are very badly built. What can you expect, when they put them up overnight?’ said P. H. Gimlet, appearing in his braces. ‘What can I do for you, squire?’

  ‘Stop turning my garden into an amusement park! I don’t like fuss, but if you don’t, I’ll – I’ll tread on your toadstool!’

  Mr Cosy was beside himself with rage by this time, because he had just seen a little notice on his beloved rose bed. It said:

  To be erected on this site: 120 Spacious Mushrooms

  Contractors: Tinkerbelle Construction Ltd

  (P. H. Gimlet, managing director)

  ‘I’ve a jolly good mind to throw the stone gnomes in the pond,’ snarled Mr Cosy.

  ‘Here, you can’t do that, they’re a regular little gold mine,’ said Mr Gimlet.

  ‘How would you like it if a lot of people came tramping all over your garden?’

  ‘Oh, they did,’ said Gimlet. ‘They chopped down the wood where I used to live to build a load of houses. Excuse me, I’ve left the kettle on.’

  Mr Cosy sighed and picked his way back through the crowds of gnomes. He noticed a new sign by the pond, which said:

  The Magic Yuman Bean Wishing Well

  Then he had an idea. He went to his garden shed and for the next half hour there was a lot of hammering. At last, he came out with a large sign and stuck it on the garden gate.

  Shortly afterwards there was a very small knock at the door. It was P. H. Gimlet.

  ‘Here, there’s lots of people in the garden,’ he complained.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ said Mr Cosy.

  ‘And there’s a notice on your gate inviting people to come and see the Pixies’ Tea Party.’

  ‘I know, I put it there.’

  ‘Well, all my customers have gone. They don’t like being stared at. And some of them nearly got trodden on!’ said the gnome.

  P. H. Gimlet stormed off back to the rockery. Mr Cosy watched him take down his signs and stamp away across the lawn.

  Soon the garden was empty. That night Mr Cosy dug a large hole at the bottom of the garden and buried the three rockery gnomes.

  But next day he bought a little concrete mermaid and sat her by the pond.

  When he got home in the evening his wife was crouched in the hall again.

  ‘There are about fifteen very small fishy ladies in the goldfish pond,’ she hissed.

  They both peered through the letterbox.

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Mr Cosy.

  From the Horse’s Mouth

  Strange things happen in Blackbury. It may be the climate, or the soil, but things in Blackbury are never quite usual. Like the case of Johnno the horse.

  He was owned by Ron Weasel, the last rag-and-bone man in Blackbury. One morning – it was quite a nice one, what with the big red sun climbing up through the mists over the Town Hall and all – Ron went out to the stable to feed Johnno.

  It was while he was adjusting the nosebag that a muffled voice said: ‘A fine morning.’

  ‘Yes, very pleasant,’ said Ron, looking round to see who had come into the stable.

  ‘It was me what said that,’ said Johnno, in a reproachful voice.

  Now Ron was a lot of things that aren’t approved in polite circles. He wasn’t all that enthusiastic about baths, for one thing, and as for housework – why, it never crossed his mind at all. But he wasn’t a fool, and if a horse talked to Ron Weasel he didn’t start telling himself he hadn’t heard anything.

  ‘Wellwellwellwellwell,’ he said. ‘How long have you been able to talk, then?’

  Johnno swished his tail.

  ‘You said, “a fine morning”? I never heard you say that before,’ Ron went on.

  ‘It’s usually been a pretty rotten morning up to now,’ said Johnno.

  Ron thought for a minute. Then he said: ‘Oh well, are we going on our rounds, then?’

  Johnno turned round in his stall and sneered, showing great yellow teeth.

  ‘Aha,’ he said. ‘When you thought I couldn’t talk it was just on with the old harness and away we go, eh? Not quite so much of the old, “get into them shafts, you great bag of bones” now, eh? Bit more civil, aren’t we? More respect, I see. Less of the old heyup and whoa. Eh?’

  ‘All right, let’s try the Station Road area; we haven’t been down there for a long time.’

  And in fact they got a lot of good stuff, so by lunchtime they pulled into a side street for a nosebag and sandwiches. Ron read the sports pages in the paper.

  ‘Ahem,’ said Johnno, ‘I’ve been thinking. Here’s me, been pulling the cart all my life, and never a decent wage, and the old firm couldn’t survive without me. Oh, you haven’t been a bad boss, I suppose. But I want next week off – or I’ll strike. I want to go foxhunting.’

  ‘Foxhunting!’ gasped Ron. ‘But that’s posh! And I can’t ride!’

  ‘Never you mind! Foxhunting it’s got to be – or I’ll strike!’

  So, Ron joined the Blackbury Hunt. It cost him a lot of money, especially since he had to buy a red coat.

  ‘The man in the shop called it hunting pink,’ he told Johnno when he got home. ‘Looks as red as letterbox to me.’

  ‘Don’t worry about a saddle,’ said the horse, ‘I’ll see you don’t fall off. Just so long as they don’t have any perishing dogs there. I hate perishing dogs.’

  ‘I think there will probably be one or two foxhounds,’ said Ron slowly.

  Next day – and much against his better judgement – Ron dressed up in his hunting outfit and rode off to the Jug and Bottle, where the hunt met. Outside the pub were a lot of other people on horseback, drinking little drinks, and when the man came and asked Ron what he wanted he said, ‘A brown ale.’

  ‘And I’ll have a pale ale in a pail,’ growled Johnno. ‘And there’s too many rotten dogs around!’

  ‘Blimey!’ said the man.

  The other huntsmen were looking rather oddly at Ron, perhaps because he had left his flat cap on. But at last, the hunt rode off down a lane.

  They hadn’t gone very far when a horn rang out from a nearby wood. Instantly Johnno bunched his great hooves together and took off like a rocket.

  ‘Yoicks!’ he bellowed.

  ‘. . . !’ thought Ron, because that was all he had time for.

  Being a carthorse, and a big one at that, Johnno thundered across the fields, going through hedges where he couldn’t jump them, and Ron was bounced around on his broad back like a pea on a drum. The rest of the hunt streamed after them, with the foxhounds yelping.

  ‘Too many rotten dogs spoiling everything!’ bellowed Johnno, aiming a few kicks at them.

  ‘You’re not supposed to do that!’ screamed Ron.

  Slowly Johnno drew level with the panting fox.

  ‘Now what?’ he asked. ‘Do we get a prize or something?’

  Ron managed to gasp out what was supposed to happen to the fox.

  ‘Never!’ swore the horse. ‘What a rotten idea! Here you, fox, yes, you with the big tail – I’M ON YOUR SIDE!’

  The fox glanced up, and then, with a despairing leap, landed on Johnno’s back behind Ron.

  ‘Righto!’ said Johnno. ‘Now to show those rotten dogs two clean pairs of hooves!’

  And away they crashed over the countryside.

  Far behind them the Master of Foxhounds, Lord Cake, was having to be helped down from his horse. His face had already gone red with anger, but the anger had now gone purple with fury and the fury had gone white with rage. But since he doesn’t come into the story again . . .

  Soon the sounds of the hunt were far behind, and Johnno cantered gracefully though the Gritshire countryside.

  ‘What shall we do now?’ he asked.

  ‘I just want to go home,’ moaned Ron.

  ‘Nonsense! The day’s just getting interesting,’ said Johnno, heartily. ‘This is much better than dragging that blessed cart around the town!’

  He trotted around a wood, and they came to the racecourse.

  ‘Oh no,’ thought Ron.

  ‘My word!’ said Johnno.

  It was Blackbury Racecourse, and this was the day of the Gritshire Handicap. Johnno, of course, had come out at the far side of the course, where there weren’t many people.

  ‘I can just see myself winning a race,’ mused Johnno, sticking his head over the railings.

  ‘Oh, no!’ thought Ron.

  People didn’t take much notice of Johnno and Ron – and the fox, who had fallen asleep – as they made their way around the course. After all, the place was full of small men on horseback.

  Johnno reached the paddock where the racehorses were and neighed softly. Immediately all the other horses whinnied and rushed up to the fence, where a sort of conversation was carried on in horse whispers.

  ‘I really think we ought to be getting home,’ said Ron, who was afraid he’d lost control of the situation.

  He was wasting his time. When the racehorses were led out of the paddock Johnno trotted resolutely behind them. When the horses lined up at the start, Johnno was in there with them.

  ‘’Ere!’ said a jockey.

  ‘What the!’ said the starter.

  ‘Hey!’ said an official man in a white coat.

  Up! went the starting gate.

  The racehorses galloped off. Johnno thudded along slowly behind them. Ron turned to look back and saw that a lot of angry-looking men were running along, waving their fists.

  Up ahead strange things were happening. Some of the racehorses had slowed down to a walk, or were eating grass, and gazing dreamily at the countryside, while their jockeys looked at each other in bewilderment.

  Johnno cantered heavily past them, grinning.

  ‘How did you manage that?’ asked Ron.

  ‘Oh, they said it was the least they could do for a poor horse that had to spend his life dragging a big heavy cart round on hard streets,’ smirked Johnno, as he lumbered past the winning post.

  He gritted his big teeth. ‘Now for the cup!’

  He snorted and rushed straight at the table where the Mayor of Blackbury was waiting to present the big silver cup to the winner of the race and, before anyone could move, he seized it in his mouth, turned round and leapt the fence into the next field.

  They hadn’t gone far when there was a great commotion behind them. The Blackbury Hunt had reached the racecourse and for a moment Johnno had been forgotten about as dogs barked, officials got bitten, and jockeys and huntsmen milled around in the confusion.

  ‘Home,’ said Ron, firmly. ‘And tomorrow I’ll return the cup.’

  ‘They’ll never believe you if you do,’ said Johnno. ‘Whoever heard of a talking horse? I won that cup fair and square, well, more or less, anyway.’

  They reached Ron’s rag-and-bone yard when it was dark. Ron shoved Johnno and the fox into the stable, locked the door, and hurried up to bed before anyone saw him.

  When he went into the stable next morning, the cup was nestling in Johnno’s manger, with the fox asleep by it.

  ‘Not a very nice morning,’ said Ron.

  Johnno said nothing.

  ‘Might clear up later,’ said Ron, looking thoughtful.

  Johnno chewed on a straw.

  ‘I believe you’ve lost your voice,’ said Ron. He reached out for the cup and Johnno stamped lightly on his foot.

  Ron thought for a bit more. Then he went off and came back with a double ration of mash.

  ‘Take your time over breakfast and then perhaps we’ll see about a little bit of work,’ he said.

  He thought: ‘I wonder, did I dream it all?’ Then he looked at the cup again.

  Johnno grinned into his nosebag. ‘Double rations and a bit of respect,’ he thought. ‘He’s learned his lesson. Life is going to be quite good from now on.’

  And it was.

  Blackbury Weather

  It was an ordinary Saturday afternoon in the little Gritshire market town of Blackbury.

  Ordinary, that is, except that on the Blackbury Rovers ground, behind the Gridley ‘Both Ends Meat’ Sausage Co. Ltd factory, the town team was playing East Slate United in the Cup Final.

  After eighty-five minutes it was still a draw. A gasp went up from the crowd as Jim Sponge, the East Slate winger, took the ball and whizzed down towards the Blackbury goal.

  And at that moment a tiny black cloud formed in the clear blue sky over the pitch. It hung there for a minute, making tiny thundering noises, and then shot off after Sponge. It caught up with him just as he reached the goal and there was a flash and . . .