The Terror Time Spies Read Online Free Page B

‘nitiation, I mean?  Pleeease.  Or we can ask him on the road.  He’ll be a great Rat Catcher.”
    Henry Bonespair frowned, because he had not told Nellie that he thought it was time they formed a rather different gang. 
    Besides, the boys had fought last summer, when he and Skipper had first met and big Skipper had made a joke about the size of Henry’s nose.  He was a little jealous of this newly flourishing friendship with his sister too. 
    “Not now, Spike.  We’re about to leave.  I can’t wait any longer.”
    Across the kitchen their mother was thinking grimly of their terrifying journey. 
    At first Charlotte had opposed it frantically, but then, when she realised her complaints were useless, she had insisted that her husband draw up a very exact itinerary, that was sitting on the kitchen table now:
    Days One to Three – Coach from Peckham to Dover.  First Eve Staying at NightWatch Inn .  Next day, pick up Francis Simpkins.  Second Night - King’s Head .  Rooms Prepaid.  Third Night.  Dover – The Eagle .  Payment owing.  Day Four.  Packet from Dover Docks.  Spirit of Endeavour …
    So the carefully planned journey went on, all the way to revolting Paris and back again. 
    Everything seemed set, but poor Charlotte was very flustered indeed now.  It was already half past ten, but there was no sign of her husband Simon at all. 
    “Francis,” she said suddenly, “I hope his aunt will have the poor boy ready.  There must be no hiccups at all.”
    Henry suddenly looked delighted.  Francis Simpkins was his best friend from their London school and the 2 nd Rat Catcher too, but with the sickness in London, his nervous Quaker parents had sent Francis to stay with his aunt, in her home on the Dover road, in a village called Fule. 
    Hal couldn’t wait to see him again and show Francis his new watch too.  They were rather unlikely friends, Henry so confident and adventurous, Francis so shy and meticulous, but they shared a certain sensitivity and an interest in everything around them.
    “Ma,” said Spike though, “Inside your tummy, ma….  Do you think our new Bonespair will be a…”
    “Boy,” said Henry sharply and with that they heard hooves outside.   
    Little Spike sprang up first and raced to the door, and outside came Mr Wickham’s second best coach, its great round wheels spinning beautifully, spitting out shards of mud and gravel.  They were about to get underway.
    Arthur Holmwood and his son Horace, known as Skipper, were sitting on the pillion.  Skipper was a huge lad, with large, flapping ears, almost as big as his father, a body too big for him, and a great mop of greasy brown hair tumbling about his ruddy face.  He was the sort of boy who looks perpetually awkward.
             Skip was not too bright either and often jealous of the Bonespair children, running about the Master’s estate as freely as wild little hooligans. 
    Well, he was jealous of Henry Bonespair, at least, although secretly Skipper wished that they could make friends too.  Spike and he had met the summer before, but only this year become firm friends.
    Mr Wickham’s second coachman, Arthur Holmwood, was totally bald and with a neck like the bull. He reigned in the animals with a loud ‘WOW THERE’ then jumped down onto the gravel, giving a little bow to Mrs Bonespair.   
    “Hello Skip,” cried Spike, who reached into his pocket and threw something down. 
    “For you, Spikey,” he called,  “Made it, meself, for the road.”
    “A catapult,” cried the little girl delightedly, “Wow, Skip.  Thanks ever so.”
    Skipper beamed but Charlotte Bonespair looked at her daughter in horror.
    “All set then?” asked Skipper’s father, “We must be leaving soon, Maam.”
    Henry wanted to explode with excitement now.
     “Don’t I know it, Mr Holmwood?” sighed Charlotte, wondering if she should try to comb Spike’s messy hair, “but my husband rode off at dawn and he isn’t back