Then Pongo knew that Sir Charles thought they were ghost dogs. And he remembered that Mr. Dearly had named him “Pongo” because it was a name given to many Dalmatians of those earlier days when they ran behind carriages. Sir Charles had taken him and Missis for Dalmatians he had known in his childhood.
“Probably my fault,” the old gentleman went on. “I’ve never been what they call ‘psychic’ nowadays. This house is supposed to be full of ghosts, but I’ve never seen any. I dare say I’m only seeing you because I’m pretty close to the edge now—and quite time, too. I’m more than ready. Well, what a joy to know that dogs go on too—I’ve always hoped it. Good news for you too, my boy.” He fondled the Spaniel’s ears. “Well, Pongo and his pretty wife, after all these years! Can’t see you so well now, but I shall remember!”
The fire was sinking lower and lower. They could no longer see the old gentleman’s face, but soon his even breathing told them he was asleep again. The Spaniel rose quietly.
“Come with me now,” he whispered, “for John will be back soon to get supper. You have given my dear old pet a great pleasure. I am deeply grateful.”
They tiptoed out of the vast, dark hall and made their way to the kitchen, where the Spaniel pressed more food on them.
“Just a few substantial biscuits—my tin is always left open for me when John is away.”
Then they had a last drink of water, and the Spaniel gave Pongo directions for reaching Suffolk. They were full of “rights” and “lefts,” and Missis did not take in one word.
The Spaniel noticed her dazed look and said playfully, “Now which is your right paw?”
“One of the front ones,” said Missis brightly. At which Pongo and the Spaniel laughed in a very masculine way.
Then they thanked the Spaniel and said good-bye. Missis said she would always remember that day.
“So shall I,” said the Spaniel, smiling at her. “Ah, Pongo, what a lucky dog you are!”
“I know it,” said Pongo, looking proudly at Missis.
Then they were off.
After they had been running across the fields for some minutes, Missis said anxiously, “How’s your leg, Pongo?”
“Much, much better. Oh, Missis, I am ashamed of myself. I made such a fuss this morning. It was partly rage. Pain hurts more when one is angry. You were such a comfort to me—and so brave.”
“And you were a comfort to me the night we left London,” said Missis. “It will be all right as long as we never lose courage both together.”
“I’m glad you did not let me bite that small human.”
“Nothing should ever make a dog bite a human,” said Missis in a virtuous voice.
Pongo remembered something. “You said only the night before last that you were going to tear Cruella de Vil to pieces. ”
“That is different,” said Missis grimly. “I do not consider Cruella de Vil is human.”
Thinking of Cruella made them anxious for the puppies, and they ran on faster, without talking any more for a long time.
Then Missis said, “Pongo, how far away from the puppies are we now?”
“With good luck we should reach them tomorrow morning,” said Pongo.
Just before midnight they came to the market town of Sudbury. Pongo paused as they crossed the bridge over the River Stour.
“Here we enter Suffolk,” he said triumphantly.
They ran on through the quiet streets of old houses and into the market square. They had hoped they might meet some dog and hear if any news of the puppies had come at the Twilight Barking, but not so much as a cat was stirring. While they were drinking at the fountain, church clocks began to strike midnight.
Missis said gladly, “Oh, Pongo, it’s tomorrow! Now we shall be with our puppies today!”
What They Saw from the Folly
As the night wore on, they travelled through many pretty villages to a countryside wilder than any they had yet seen. There were more woods and heaths, fewer farms. So wild was it that Pongo would risk no short cuts and stuck cautiously to the roads, which were narrow and twisted. The moon was behind clouds, so he could not read what few signposts there were.
“I’m so afraid we may go through our village without knowing it,” he said. “For as we have not been able to send any news by the Twilight Barking, nobody will be on the lookout for us.”
But he was wrong. Suddenly, out of the darkness, came a loud “Miaow.”
They stopped instantly. Just ahead of them, up a tree, was a tabby cat. She said, “Pongo and Missis? I suppose you are friendly?”
“Yes, indeed, madam,” said Pongo. “Are you by any chance the cat who helped to find our puppies?”
“That’s me,” said the cat.
“Oh, thank you, thank you!” cried Missis.
The cat jumped down. “Sorry to seem suspicious of you, but some dogs just can’t control themselves when they see a cat—not that I’ve ever had any trouble. Well, here you are.”
“How very kind of you to keep watch for us, madam,” said Pongo.
“No hardship, I’m usually out at night. You can call me Tib. My real name’s Pussy Willow, but that’s too long for most people—a pity, really, as it’s a name I could fancy.”
“It suits you so well,” said Pongo in a courtly tone he had picked up from the Spaniel, “with your slender figure and soft grey paws.” He was taking a chance in saying this, for it was too dark for him to see her figure, let alone her paws.
The cat was delighted. “Well, I have kept my figure—and it was my paws got me the name Pussy Willow. Now you’ll be wanting a bite of food and a good long rest.”
“Please tell us if all is still well with our puppies,” said Missis.
“It was, yesterday afternoon—when I last saw them. Lively as crickets and fat as butter, they were.”
“Could we see them—just a glimpse—before we eat or sleep?” asked Missis.
“We can’t climb trees, as Mrs. Willow can,” said Pongo.
“You won’t need to,” said the cat. “The Colonel’s made other arrangements. But you can’t see the puppies before they are let out for exercise, and that’ll be hours yet. Those Badduns are late risers. Well, come along and meet the Colonel.”
“A human Colonel?” asked Missis, puzzled.
“Bless me, no. The Colonel’s our Sheepdog. A perfect master of strategy—you ask the sheep. He calls me his lieutenant. ”
The cat was now leading them along the road. Pongo asked how far it was to the farm.
“Oh, we’re not going to the farm now. The Colonel’s spending the night at the Folly. Crazy place, but it’s coming in very useful. ”
The darkness was thinning. Soon the road ran across a stretch of heath on which, still some way ahead of them, a dark mass stood out against the gradually lightening sky. After a few moments Pongo saw that the dark mass was a great stone wall.
“There you are,” said the cat. “Your puppies are behind that.”
“It looks like the wall of a prison,” said Pongo.
“Nasty place,” said the cat. “The Colonel will tell you its history.”
She led them from the road over the rough grass of the heath. As they drew nearer, Pongo saw that the wall curved—as the wall of a round tower curves. Above it rose the trunks of tall trees, their bare branches black against the sky.
“You’d think there would be a castle, at least, inside that huge wall,” said the cat. “And they do say there was going to be, only something went wrong. All that’s there now—Well, you can see for yourself.”
She led the way to the rusty iron gates, and Pongo and Missis peered through the bars. There was now enough light for them to see some distance. Beyond a stretch of grass as wild as the surrounding heath, they saw the glint of water—but, strangely, it seemed to be black water. Then they saw the reason why. Reflected in it was a black house.
It was the most frightening house Pongo and Missis had ever seen. Many of the windows in its large, flat face ha
d been bricked up and those that were left looked like eyes and a nose, with the front door for a mouth. Only there were too many eyes, and the nose and the mouth were not quite in the right places, so that the whole face looked distorted.
“It’s seen us!” gasped Missis—and it really did seem as if the eyes of the house were staring at them from its cracked and peeling black face.
“Well, that’s Hell Hall for you,” said the cat.
She moved on and they followed her, round the curving wall. After a few minutes they saw a tower rising high above the tree-tops. It was built of rough grey stone, like the wall, and was rather like a church tower. But there was no church. The tower simply jutted out of the wall. Some of the narrow windows were broken, and their stonework was crumbling. The place was not yet a ruin but looked as if it quite soon might be one.
“Well may they call it a Folly!” said the cat.
Missis did not know what the word meant, but Pongo had seen a Folly before and was able to explain. The name is often given to expensive, odd buildings built for no sensible reason, buildings that it was a foolishness to build.
The cat miaowed three times, and there were three answering barks from inside the tower. A moment later came the sound of a bolt being drawn back.
“The Colonel’s the only dog I ever knew who could manage bolts with his teeth,” said the cat proudly.
Pongo instantly decided he would learn to manage bolts.
“Come in, come in,” said a rumbling voice, “but let me have a look at you first. There’s not much light inside yet.”
An enormous Sheepdog came out. Pongo saw at once that this was none of your dapper military men but a lumbering old soldier man, possibly a slow thinker but widely experienced. His eyes glittered shrewdly and kindly through his masses of grey-and-white woolly hair.
“Glad to see you’re large Dalmatians,” he said approvingly. “I’ve nothing against small dogs, but the size of all breeds should be kept up. Well, now, what’s been happening to you? There was a rare to-do on the Twilight Barking last night, when no one had any news of you.”
He led the way into the Folly, while Pongo told of their day with the Spaniel.
“Sounds a splendid fellow,” said the Colonel. “Sorry he’s not on the Barking. Now, tuck in, you two. I provided breakfast just in case you turned up.”
There was plenty of good farmhouse food and a deep round tin full of water.
“How did you get it all here?” asked Pongo astonished.
“I rolled the round tin from the farm—with the food inside it,” said the Colonel. “I stuffed the tin with straw so that the food wouldn’t fall out. And then I borrowed a small seaside bucket from my young pet, Tommy—the dear little chap would lend me anything. I can carry that bucket by its handle. Six trips to the pond on the heath got the water here—lucky it thawed yesterday. Drink up! Plenty more where that came from.”
The cat acted as hostess during the meal. Pongo was careful always to address her as “Mrs. Willow.”
“What’s this Mrs. Willow business?” said the Colonel suddenly.
“Pussy Willow happens to be my given name,” said the cat. “And I’m certainly a Mrs.”
“You’ve got too many names,” said the Colonel. “You’re ‘Puss’ because all cats are ’Puss.‘ You’re ’Pussy Willow’ because it’s your given name. You’re ‘Tib’ because most people call you that. I call you ’Lieutenant’ or ‘Lieutenant Tib.’ I thought you liked it.”
“I like ‘Lieutenant’ but not ’Lieutenant Tib.‘ ”
“Well, you can’t be ‘Mrs. Willow’ on top of everything else. You can’t have six names.”
“I’m entitled to nine names as I’ve nine lives,” said the cat. “But I’ll settle for ‘Lieutenant Willow’—with ‘Puss’ for playful moments. ”
“Right,” said the Colonel. “And now we’ll show our guests their sleeping quarters.”
“Oh, please,” begged Missis. “Couldn’t we get just a glimpse of the puppies before we sleep?”
The cat shot a quick look at the Colonel and said, “I’ve told them the pups won’t be out for hours yet.”
“Besides, you’d get too excited to sleep,” said the Colonel. “You must both have a good rest before you start worrying.”
“Worrying?” said Pongo sharply. “Is something wrong?”
“I give you my word there is nothing wrong with your puppies,” said the Colonel.
Pongo and Missis believed him—and yet they both thought there was something odd about his voice, and about the look the cat had given him.
“Now up we go,” the Colonel went on briskly. “You’re sleeping on the top floor because that’s the only floor where the windows aren’t broken. Want a ride Lieutenant Wib—I mean Lieutenant Tillow—oh, good heavens, cat!”
“If there’s one thing I object to being called, it’s plain ‘cat,’” said the cat.
“Quite right. I don’t like being called plain ‘dog,’ ” said the Colonel. “I apologize, Lieutenant Willow. Now jump on my back unless you want to walk.”
The cat jumped on the Colonel’s back and held on by his long hair. Pongo had never before seen a cat jump on a dog’s back with friendly intentions. He was deeply impressed-both by the Colonel’s trustfulness and the cat’s trustworthiness.
The narrow, twisting stairs went up through five floors of the Folly, most of them full of broken furniture, old trunks, and all manner of rubbish. On the top floor was a deep bed of straw, brought up by the Colonel in a sack. But what interested Missis far more was the narrow window—surety it must look towards Hell Hall?
She ran to see. Yes, beyond the tree-tops and a neglected orchard was the back of the black house—which was as ugly as the front, though it did not have such a frightening expression. At one side was a large stableyard.
“Is that where the puppies will come out?” she asked.
“Yes, yes,” said the Colonel, “but it won’t be for—we!!, for some time yet.”
“I shall never sleep until I’ve seen them,” said Missis.
“Yes, you will, because I shall talk you to sleep,” said the Colonel. “Your husband has asked me to tell him the history of Hell Hall. Now come and lie down.”
Pongo was as anxious to see the puppies as Missis was, but he knew they should sleep first, so he coaxed her to lie down. The Colonel pulled the straw round both of them.
“It’s chilly in here—not that I feel it,” he said. Then he sent the cat to start collecting food for the next meal, and began to talk in his rumbling voice. This was the story he told.
Hell Hall had once been an ordinary farmhouse named Hill Hall—it had been built by a farmer named Hill. It was about two hundred years old, the same age as the farm where the Sheepdog and the cat lived.
“The two houses are quite a bit alike,” said the Colonel, “only our place is painted white and well cared for. I remember Hell Hall before it was painted black and it really wasn’t bad at all.”
The farmer named Hill had got into debt and sold Hill Hall to an ancestor of Cruella de Vil‘s, who liked its lonely position on the wild heath. He intended to pull the farmhouse down and build himself a fantastic house which was to be a mixture of a castle and a cathedral, and had begun by building the surrounding wall and the Folly. (The Colonel had heard all this while visiting the Vicarage.)
Once the wall, with its heavy iron gates, was finished, strange rumours began to spread. Villagers crossing the heath at night heard screams and wild laughter. Were there prisoners behind the prison-like wall? People began to count their children carefully.
“Some of the stories—Well, I shan’t tell you just as you’re falling asleep,” said the Colonel. “I didn’t hear them at the Vicarage. But I will tell you something—because it won’t upset you as it naturally upset the villagers. It was said that this de Vil fellow had a long tail. I didn’t hear that at the Vicarage, either.”
Missis had taken in very little of this and was now fast
asleep, but Pongo was keenly interested.
“By this time,” the Colonel went on, “people were calling the place Hell Hall, and the de Vil chap plain devil. The end came when the men from several villages arrived one night with lighted torches, prepared to break open the gates and burn the farmhouse down. But as they approached the gates a terriffic thunderstorm began and put the torches out. Then the gates burst open—seemingly of their own accord—and out came de Vil, driving a coach and four. And the story is that lightning was coming not from the skies but from de Vil—blue forked lightning. All the men ran away screaming and never came back. And neither did de Vil. The house stood empty for thirty years. Then someone rented it. It’s been rented again and again, but no one ever stays.”
“And it still belongs to the de Vil family?” asked Pongo.
“There’s only Cruella de Vil left of the family now. Yes, she owns it. She came down here some years ago and had the house painted black. It’s red inside, I’m told. But she never lived here. She lets the Baddun brothers have it rent free, as caretakers. I wouldn’t let them take care of any kennel of mine. ”
Those were the last words Pongo heard, for, as the story ended, sleep wrapped him round. The Sheepdog stood looking down at the peaceful couple.
“Well, they’re in for a shock,” he thought, and then lumbered his way downstairs.
It was less than an hour later when Missis opened her eyes. She had been dreaming of the puppies, she had heard them barking—and they were barking! She sprang out of the straw and dashed to the window. No pup was to be seen, but she could hear the barking clearly—it was coming from inside the black house. Then the barking grew louder, the door to the stableyard opened, and out came a stream of puppies.