The Willows and Beyond by Kenneth Grahame, William Horwood, Patrick Benson

wiping the tears from his eyes, yet sobbing still.
    “You deserve it and a great deal more, and we all think so,” said the Rat. “And Mr Badger thinks so too. He has sent a special card apologizing for his absence, as he and Otter have had to go to the Town on urgent River business. It seems there is some talk in the Town of building new houses in the Wild Wood that must be nipped in the bud.”
    “Badger sent me a card!” said the Mole, more interested just then in present pleasures than in future threats.
    “And Mr Toad told us,” continued Nephew, “that though he was otherwise engaged with Master Toad this afternoon he would make every effort to see that the two of them join us a little later, and that he will bring the champagne with him.”
    “Toad bringing me champagne!”
    “Now come on, Mole,” said the Rat, the others having agreed he should be Master of Ceremonies come inside and tuck into the birthday tea we have prepared.”
    “Tea?For me? O dear, I am going to cry again.”
    But how truly happy he was that afternoon, and happier still as the afternoon progressed and dusk came. Indeed, everything seemed perfect — and might have stayed so, had not Portly and Nephew gone outside for a breath of fresh air, only to come rushing back in a state of alarm.
    “Uncle! You others! Keep quiet!”
    “Why, what is it?” cried the Rat, rising from his seat in alarm.
    “The Beast’s out there and he’s coming this way!” whispered Nephew.
    “The Beast?” said the Rat louder than he should.
    “But there is no Beast,” said the stalwart Mole.
    “There is, and we’ve just seen him clambering over the gate,” said Portly.
    “But — but —“ began the Mole.
    “Shhh! Mole, old fellow,” commanded the Rat. “I can see these two mean business, so the least we can do is to investigate their claims.”
    He crept to a window and peered out.
    “Good heavens,” he whispered, aghast, “we must arm ourselves.”
    “Why, what can you see?” said the Mole, joining the Rat, and peering out from a now darkened Mole End.
    “Them!” said the Rat very grimly indeed, pointing a finger through the dusk.
    It was true. Out of the darkness came two figures, hunch-backed and shambling as primeval creatures do, stopping now and then to look about, and the bigger one, the leader, holding an enormous stave.

    “The Beast and his Mate!” said the Rat.
    The front door was still ajar and as the Rat went to close and bolt it they heard the most terrible grunting and groaning coming from the beasts, and then strange other-worldly mutterings.
    “See how their eyes stare so horribly!” whispered Portly from the window, for as on previous sightings the creatures seemed to have great white ovoid eyes.
    The Mole, who had recovered himself and taken up the trusty cudgel that had stood him so well in the past in crises such as these, was now calm determination itself, and said, “They seem big, and they certainly sound dangerous, but there are five of us and only two of—”
    “They’re advancing once again,” said Portly.
    “What do you think we should do?” said the Mole tersely.
    “Surprise is always the best form of attack,” answered Grandson stoutly. “Have you perhaps any other weapons so that as they reach the door we can spring it open, charge them down, and overpower them?”
    Thus it was that as the Beast’s grunting and groaning outside began once more, and there came a primordial knocking and clattering at the door, the Rat let forth his battle cry, “Charge them down, and give no quarter to our enemy!”
    As the door burst open, the two exhausted, startled figures on the doorstep were sent flying, landing in a tangled heap of arms and legs and straps.
    “Look, the Beast has four legs!” cried Grandson, not realizing who owned the limbs he was now attacking.
    “The Beast wears khaki—coloured armour to protect itself!” cried the Mole, bringing down his cudgel a good many times on the