[Flying Dutchman 01] - Castaways of the Flying Dutchman by Brian Jacques

the only quick way out of the garden. The big black Labrador pursued them, snarling and growling viciously. The rest of the gang took one look at the savage hound and tried to make good their escape. However, the soft, ripe compost couldn’t bear their joint weight, and Wilf, Regina, and their cohorts found themselves sinking into the odious squelching mire, shrieking and grabbing at one another. As he barked and bayed like a mad wolf, Ned allowed a little slather of froth to wreathe his jaws, though inside he was giggling like a puppy. The fleeing Grange members fell over one another, kicking and fighting to be first over the wall, faces, hands, elbows, and legs covered with the stinking mass of decayed vegetation.
    Standing outside, Ben saw the first few fling themselves from the walltop, thudding painfully onto the dusty path. Before they could rise, more yowling muddy apparitions landed on them. It was utter bedlam! Ben pulled a disgusted face at the smell hanging on the air, then he turned away, carelessly whistling an old sea shanty, his untidy blond shock of hair bobbing as he entered the garden jauntily.
    Ned came bounding up, his teeth bared in a huge doggy grin. “Now you know why my barking practice is important. Did you hear me, Ben, I made more din than a pack of beagles. Pretty good going, I’d say!”
    â€œExcellent! You did very well for an ancient hound. Bet they cover a mile or two before they stop running. What’s this? Look, Ned, there’s an old lady coming out of the house.”
    Mrs. Winn had a walking stick in her hand in case of trouble, and she stopped several yards from them. Her voice had a sharp note to it as she looked them over. “You don’t look like one of those hooligans. What are you doing here? Is that dog yours?”
    Ned sat still and did some friendly dog-panting exercises, which he rated as important as barking practice.
    Ben flicked the hair from his eyes with a swift nod and smiled disarmingly. “Afternoon, marm. We didn’t mean to trespass, but we thought that gang was annoying you. Not nice that, annoying folk.”
    Mrs. Winn peered closer at the strange, polite boy. His white canvas pants and crewneck sweater, together with what appeared to be a cut-down naval jacket, gave him the look of a seaman, freshly arrived ashore.
    Behind his smile she could sense calm; however, it was mainly the boy’s blue eyes that caught her attention—they seemed ageless, misty blue, like the summer horizon of a far sea.
    She blinked, beckoning the two forward with her stick. “Does that dog attack cats?”
    The Labrador shot out an indignant thought. “Attack cats, me? Is the old dear mad? I love the furry little things, as long as they keep their claws to themselves. Huh, attack cats!”
    Ben patted his dog fondly. “Ned’s just fine with cats, marm. He’s friendly, too. Give the lady your paw, Ned!”
    Mrs. Winn held out her hand, and Ned dutifully presented a paw.
    Obviously impressed, the old lady stroked Ned’s sleek coat. “Oh, you’re a good dog, Ned, good dog!”
    Ned gave her the benefit of his soulful gaze. “Thank you, marm, and you’re a nice lady, nice lady!”
    She turned to the strange boy. “So, what’s your name?”
    â€œBen, marm, just call me Ben.”
    She offered her hand. Ben shook it gently, and she winked at him. “My name’s Winifred Winn, but you can call me Winnie, and stop ‘marming’ me. You sound like my husband used to. ‘Marm’ this and ‘marm’ that. Well, Ben, I suppose you like apple pie and lemonade, and I’ll bet Ned wouldn’t mind a dish of water and a beef bone with lots of marrow and fat to it.”
    â€œOoh, ooh! I could grow to love this old lady dearly!”
    Ben bypassed the dog’s compliment. “That’d be very nice, ma . . . er, Winnie, thank you.”
    She ushered them both inside.