“Is he dead?” the owl inquired anxiously, peering down.

Hyacinth bent closer, checking the man’s breathing. “No,” she said, “at least, not yet. But he’s very badly hurt.” She looked up at the crag looming above them. “He must have fallen from up there, wouldn’t you say? He needs a doctor. But how can we—”

“There are servants in the house,” the owl said. (He always had an answer for everything.) “We must rouse them. Rascal, gooo and bark at the windows.”

“But there aren’t any servants,” Rascal replied grimly. “At the ferry today, I heard Mr. Baum tell Mr. Wyatt that he had to let them go. He said he had put all his money into that aeroplane and couldn’t afford to pay them.”

The man moaned again, but very faintly, and closed his eyes. “We have to get help,” Hyacinth said. “Quickly!”

Rascal turned to the owl. “Raven Hall is not too far away. You could fly there and bring someone back, Professor. Fly fast!”

“No.” Hyacinth shook her head. “That won’t help, Rascal. No offense, Professor, but nobody will pay attention to an owl.”

“Oooh, cooome now!” the Professor exclaimed, deeply affronted. Still, while he would never admit it, he knew that the badger had spoken sensibly. Big Folks are clever. Some are even clever enough to construct machines that fly. But they simply do not have what it takes to understand animal language, particularly the languages of wild creatures. Some amongst them might interpret his calls as an omen of death, but the more enlightened—Major Kittredge, for instance—would view that as mere superstition. As far as the major was concerned, his alarm cries would be just so much night noise.

“Well, they certainly won’t listen to me, either,” Hyacinth said in a practical tone. “In fact, somebody would probably shoot me. Rascal, that just leaves you. You’ll have to go and get help. Hurry.”

“I’ll do my best,” Rascal said without hesitation, and set off. Racing through the night, he followed the path through the woods, back to Raven Hall. When he reached it, he saw that most of the windows were dark and guessed that the residents had gone to bed. By moonlight, the house looked even more commanding than it did during the day: an imposing example of baronial Gothic, a Victorian version of a medieval castle, with crow-stepped gables and turrets topped with candle-snuffer caps and battlements. Rascal could almost imagine that defenders were stationed behind those battlements, ready to pour boiling tar upon the head of any intrepid trespasser.

But Rascal was undeterred. There was a light burning on the main floor, and he knew that the major was at home. So he ran around the house to the main entrance and raced up the wide stone steps. The bell pull was out of his reach (no one imagines that a small dog will have need of a door bell), which meant that he had to jump up on his hind legs to yank at it with his teeth. He jumped and yanked and jumped and yanked several times, then began barking and yelping and pawing frantically at the door.

At last, it opened and an elderly man-servant, his sparse gray hair in a muddle all over his head, peered out. He was wearing a dressing gown and carried a candle. (A candle? Yes. The major has installed an electrical generator that provides a reading light in the library and two lights in the kitchen, but the rest of the huge, sprawling house is lit by paraffin lamps and candles. It’s very romantic and certainly in keeping with the idea of the medieval castle, but a little hard on the eyes, I should think.)

“What’s all this noise?” the butler demanded, for that’s who this was. “What do you want?” Not seeing anyone, he opened the door wider, holding up the candle and putting out his head to look around. “Who’s there?” he called loudly.

“It’s me!” Rascal barked. “I’ve come to get Major Kittredge! We have an emergency.”

The old man looked down. “Why, it’s only a little terrier!” His voice hardened. He was a butler and accustomed to giving orders to underlings, who were expected to follow his orders. “What are you doing here, dog?” he barked. (I’m sorry, but this is the only way of describing his tone.) “Where’s your master?”

Of course, the butler didn’t expect an answer to his questions. He was simply expressing his displeasure at being summoned to the door after he’d already gone to bed—and by a dog. A mere dog, for pity’s sake.

“I’m here about Mr. Baum!” Rascal barked. He pawed the air, dancing around in a circle. “He’s hurt! He may be dying! The major must come and help! Hurry!”

It was an urgent message, delivered urgently and succinctly, and if it had been you or me or Miss Potter, I am sure that we would have understood that something important was being said and that we should have to pay attention. But all that the servant could hear was a flurry of barks and yelps, and all that he could see was a pesky little dog, bouncing up and down on his hind legs, waving his forepaws in the air.

“Go away,” the old man growled. By now he was feeling extremely out of sorts. “Go home, cur. Whatever it is that you want, we don’t have any of it here.” And with that, he put out his foot and gave our Rascal a very hard kick.

Now, I understand that it is late and the butler wants to go back to bed and has no patience with a noisy little dog, barking and yelping at the front door and threatening to rouse the whole household. But even so, I hardly see the necessity for calling Rascal a cur, do you? And giving him a kick? That really is going too far. All the man had to do was shut the door in the dog’s face, and that would have been the end of that. (Although probably not, for Rascal is a determined fellow and would have raced right around to the kitchen and got in that way.)

But Jack Russells do not like to be kicked, and they especially do not like to be addressed as “cur.” When Rascal heard that offensive word and felt that sharp toe in his ribs, he did something he had never before considered doing, for he is by nature an accommodating, polite little dog. That is, he is accommodating and polite in ordinary circumstances. But this was an extraordinary circumstance, so he responded in an extraordinary way.

He bit the butler’s ankle.

“Yowch!” cried the old man, grabbing his ankle and jumping up and down. “Mad dog! He bit me! There’s a mad dog on the loose! Get a gun!”

Now, you may feel differently about this, but I am of the opinion that a man (no matter his age) who kicks a dog ought to get something in return for his effort. So I don’t have a problem with Rascal’s giving him a generous nip. Tit for tat, I say. Perhaps this person will think twice before he kicks another animal.

Then, whilst the butler was assessing the damage to his person, Rascal took the opportunity to dash between his legs and through the open doorway, and thence into the wide baronial hall, arriving just in time to meet Major Kittredge, who had been sitting up reading under the electric light in the library and was still fully dressed. The major had heard the racket and wanted to know what was going on.

“Why, it’s Rascal,” he said in surprise when he saw the dog. “What’s all the noise, old chap?”

“That beast must be shot!” the butler cried. By now he had worked himself into a frenzy. “He bit me! I’m bleeding! Mad dog!”

The major stepped forward, bent over, and inspected the butler’s ankle. “I don’t see any blood, Frederick.” He put a gentle finger on a spot where the skin was bruised. “Is this what all the fuss is about?”

The butler looked down, frowning. “P’rhaps it’s . . . it’s not as bad as I thought ’twas,” he muttered. He glared at the dog. “But I still say he ought to be shot.”

“I didn’t intend to hurt you,” Rascal barked defensively. “But nobody likes to be kicked.” He could still feel that toe in his ribs.

“I’m sure the bite must have startled you, Frederick,” the major said diplomatically. “Why don’t you wake Mrs. Durham and see if she has a salve for it?”

“Yes, Major Kittredge,” the butler said, although he knew very well that if he waked Mrs. Durham, she would take his head off. Putting on an exaggerated limp, he went off down the hall.

The major turned to the dog, frowning. “Now, then, Rascal. What’s going on here?”

“It’s your neighbor, Mr. Baum.” Rascal sat down on his haunches and put up an earnest paw. “He fell from Oat Cake Crag. He’s badly hurt. He needs a doctor! Please—”

“What is it, Christopher?” Mrs. Kittredge leaned over the stairs, looking down. She was wearing a dressing gown and a lace-trimmed sleeping cap. “What is all that barking? It’ll wake the children.” And then she, too, saw the little dog. “Why, it’s Rascal!” she said. “George Crook’s dog, from the village. Whatever is he doing here, at this time of night?”

“I am trying to tell you,” Rascal exclaimed. “Mr. Baum is hurt. He may be dying. You must come!” And with that, he jumped up, seized the hem of the major’s jacket in his teeth, and began tugging him toward the door.

Now, Jack Russells are not very large dogs. But when they have a job to do, they are exceedingly diligent about doing it. In fact, as you undoubtedly know if you have ever been acquainted with a Jack Russell, once they have accepted an assignment, it is virtually impossible to keep them from carrying it out. I daresay that the only way to deter Rascal from this task would have been to chain him to a tree, which the major was not inclined to do.

“Why, how very strange,” the major exclaimed, trying unsuccessfully to disengage himself. “He’s acting as if he wants to take me somewhere.”

Mrs. Kittredge spoke decidedly. “Christopher, I have the feeling that something is the matter. Perhaps there’s a cart upset on the road, or a fire. You’d better take a couple of the servants and go and see.”

Rascal stopped tugging long enough to say, “Yes, oh yes! Come on—let’s go!” and then began tugging again.

The major sighed. It was late, he was tired, and he was not happy at the prospect of going out in the cold to look for somebody’s upset cart. But his wife was pushing him from one direction and Rascal was pulling from the other, so he (prudently) yielded. He reached for a bell on the wall, and rang it. When a young man appeared, he said, “Fetch Richard and bring several lanterns around to the front. We’re going out.”

“Where, sir?” the young man asked.

“How the devil should I know?” the major said helplessly. He pointed to the dog, who by now was standing beside the door, waiting. “We’re following him.”

And that is how Rascal managed to summon the major and a pair of stout, husky young men to the place where Mr. Baum lay. Hyacinth and the Professor wisely stayed out of sight, knowing that there would be no explaining this odd collection of animals around the injured man.

“Is he dead?” Richard asked, bending over the injured man.

Major Kittredge knelt down and put an ear to Mr. Baum’s chest. “No, but he’s in bad shape. Go to the manor house, quickly, and bring the servants. We’ll get him to his bed and summon the doctor.”

When the house proved to be completely empty, Major Kittredge instructed his servants to hitch a wagon to a horse they found in the manor stable. With difficulty (Mr. Baum really was a very stout person, weighing well over fifteen stone), they got the injured man into the wagon and conveyed him to Raven Hall, where he was carried upstairs (with even more difficulty) and put to bed in one of the many guest bedrooms. Another servant rode off on the major’s fleetest horse to fetch Dr. Butters from Hawkshead.

But since the market town was some three miles away and the doctor had to be rousted out of a sound sleep, it was over an hour before he arrived. Meanwhile, the major paced the floor, wishing that he could have simply rung the doctor up. Telephones were everywhere in London. Even towns as small as Kendal, on the eastern side of Windermere, now had them. There was no service on this side of the lake, though, and not likely to be for some time to come.

And of course, he was also thinking about the irony of the whole thing. For whilst the villagers were muttering about Baum’s absence from the meeting that night, the poor fellow was lying, injured and unconscious, upon the rocks at the foot of Oat Cake Crag. The major had come to the same conclusion that Hyacinth had reached: Mr. Baum had climbed Oat Cake Crag and then fallen. Why had he gone up there? The major couldn’t hazard a guess. He was relieved when the doctor finally arrived and took charge of the situation, as the best doctors do.

Doctor Butters has put on a little weight around the middle since his marriage to Miss Mason, whom he met during those odd events and confusions of identities at Briar Bank House, and to whom he has been happily married ever since. But he still has the same reddish hair and gingery mustache, the same engaging (if somewhat caustic) manner, and he is still beloved by all in the district, who consider him the very best doctor in the world. Now, having set Mr. Baum’s broken arm and leg and tended to his unconscious patient’s other visible injuries, he wore a look of deep concern.

“This is a bad business,” he told the major, who had helped him to set the broken limbs. (During his wartime service, the major had been often called upon to do much more than this, and was as competent as any nurse.) “The fractures will mend in time, of course. But there may be some internal bleeding. And with a head injury of this sort—” He frowned. “Well, it’s simply unpredictable, that’s all. I’ve seen some wake up the next morning and demand coffee and The Times. I’ve seen others spend the rest of their lives in a coma. There is just no telling how this will end. With that in mind, I should think he would be more comfortable at Lakeshore Manor, where his people can take care of him.”

“Poor fellow,” the major said sympathetically. “But he can’t be taken home, I’m afraid. There’s no one to look after him. No servants, I mean. I was there tonight. The place is empty—and I don’t mean that they’re simply out for the evening or a day or two. Looks like they’ve all cleared out.”

“Oh, dear!” It was Mrs. Kittredge, still in her dressing gown and ruffled cap. She had come into the room at that moment and heard her husband’s words. “Well, then, Mr. Baum must stay with us. We’ll take care of him until he is up and about.”

The major gave her a frowning look. “Dr. Butters says that it may take some time, my dear. The fellow has a serious head injury. There’s no predicting how long he will—”

“That does not matter in the slightest, Christopher,” Mrs. Kittredge said decidedly. “The poor man is our neighbor. We must do all we can to help.”

“That’s very kind of you, Mrs. Kittredge,” the doctor said, although he was thinking that the dear lady had no idea what she might be letting herself in for. Baum might lie there in that bed for weeks. For months. Forever.

Mrs. Kittredge smiled. “Thank you, Doctor.” To her husband, she said, “I’ll just go and wake Ellen, dear. She can come and sit with him for the next few hours.” With that, she left the room.

The doctor rolled down his shirtsleeves. “What happened, Kittredge, do you know? A vehicle accident, I suppose.” It was a logical guess, since many of the injuries the doctor treated were caused when a wagon or cart overturned.

The major shook his head. “It seems to have been a fall. My men and I found him at the foot of Oat Cake Crag a couple of hours ago, just before we summoned you. I have no idea how or when he might have fallen, though. For all I know, he could have lain on those rocks for a day or more. Lucky for him that the weather’s been mild.”

“Well, I can tell you that it had to have happened more recently than that,” the doctor replied, fastening his cuffs. “He was on the ferry this afternoon, coming across the lake. He was having an argument with that partner of his. Oscar Wyatt. The fellow who built the aeroplane.” He pulled his gingery brows together and pursed his lips. “Now, there’s an obnoxious character if I ever met one. Wyatt, I mean. He was telling Baum that he needed more money for this and that—all having to do with the aeroplane, of course. Baum said he didn’t have any more money to put into the project. Said he’d even had to let his servants go.”

“Ah,” said the major thoughtfully. “So that’s why the house is empty.”

“Apparently.” The doctor closed his black bag, nodding. “But Wyatt wouldn’t leave it at that. The fellow kept after Baum unmercifully. Money for fuel, for repairs, for more work on the motor, on the hangar. One thing after another—money, money, money. Quite importunate, he was. Didn’t care who heard him, either. Rude and annoying, I thought. Baum seemed quite put out about it, although it was a public place and he is a gentleman, so he didn’t respond.” He shook his head. “If you ask me, I’d say that Baum is heartily sorry that he’s gotten involved with that aeroplane business. He’s looking for a way out.”

“Ah, yes. That aeroplane,” the major said. He glanced at the doctor. “You knew about the meeting tonight?”

Butters nodded. “I would have been there, but I was called to deliver Mrs. Tall’s latest boy—which makes seven, if I’ve counted right.” He grinned crookedly. “Imagine. Seven boys under the age of ten. Poor woman, and her with no girls to help with the laundry.” He paused. “What did I miss? At the meeting, I mean.”

“Not much,” Kittredge replied with a small shrug. “Everyone in the village is against it, as far as I can tell—except for Woodcock. He thinks aeroplanes are necessary for defense.”

“Which they just might be,” the doctor replied soberly. “I suppose we shall all have to get used to the noise.” He snapped his bag shut. “Had you heard that Churchill is coming to have a look at the thing?”

Kittredge pressed his lips together. “I hadn’t, but I can’t say I’m surprised. Churchill likes to be seen to have his hand in everything, on the off chance that some of it might work.” He gave a sour chuckle. “When is he coming?”

“No idea. Baum and Wyatt were talking about it. Churchill apparently has it in mind to establish a Royal Flying Corp. I got the idea that Baum was reluctant, though. Seemed to feel that the aeroplane was not yet ready for official scrutiny. Wyatt, on the other hand, was brimming with enthusiasm for the visit. Gave him another reason to ask for money—and show off his machine, of course.” He picked up his bag. “Wyatt may be a crack aeroplane pilot, but his dealings with people leave something to be desired. Inconsiderate, I’d say. Churlish.”

Kittredge frowned. “What should be said if he shows up here, wanting to see Baum?”

Butters glanced back at the motionless man on the bed. “It might be a good idea not to let him in. The two men did not part company on the best of terms this afternoon, or so it seemed to me. Tell Wyatt that there are to be no visitors. Doctor’s orders.”

“Agreed,” said the major.

The doctor opened the door. “I understand that Wyatt is staying at the Sawrey Hotel. I’ll stop there on my way back to Hawkshead and leave a message for him, telling him what has happened. If no one’s awake, I can put it through the door.” He sighed. “I suppose I’d better let Woodcock know, as well. He may want to send the constable over to talk with you.”

The major nodded. “I’ll see you out,” he said, and they went downstairs.

A moment later, as they were saying good night on the broad stone steps outside Raven Hall, the doctor turned for one last word. “You say you found Baum just a couple of hours ago? After dark? Lucky for him, but it’s curious. How did you happen to discover him?”

“It is curious,” the major agreed. “I was just ready to go to bed when George Crook’s little dog—Rascal, he’s called—appeared at the door. Bit the butler, which got my attention.”

“Ah, Rascal. Yes. He rode from the ferry with me this afternoon.” The doctor chuckled. “Bit the butler, you say? That’s rather dramatic. Should I have a look?”

“Not necessary. He didn’t break the skin. But he did insist quite urgently that I accompany him. I brought along two of my fellows, and he took us straight to where Baum lay.”

“Remarkable,” the doctor said. He put on his hat. “You never know about animals, do you? I’m often glad that my horse can’t talk.” He chuckled again. “Might tell Mrs. Butters where I’ve been and what I’ve been up to.”

But the doctor’s horse (a bay gelding named Phoenix) can talk, and very well. He and Rascal, as well as Hyacinth and the Professor, had been having a conversation as they waited for the doctor to come out. Phoenix had already invited Rascal to ride back to the village, and the little dog had said good night to his friends and settled himself in the buggy, as the doctor discovered when he climbed in.

“Hello again,” Rascal said.

The doctor picked up the reins. “I hear you bit the butler,” he said, scowling down at the dog.

“He kicked me,” Rascal replied in a defensive tone. “And it wasn’t much of a bite. If I had really wanted to, I could have taken his foot off.”

“Well, don’t try it with me,” the doctor warned dryly. “I’ll bite you back.” He clucked to his horse. “Let’s go, Phoenix.”

Their next stop was at the Sawrey Hotel. Late as it was, the hotel was dark, so the doctor merely scribbled a note on a piece of paper, folded it, and wrote Oscar Wyatt’s name on the outside, then put it through the mail slot in the front door. Then they were off again. When they got to the village, Rascal barked his thanks to the doctor, jumped out of the buggy, and trotted up the street in the direction of Belle Green, feeling that he had done his duty for that night.

I think you will agree that he had, and more. It is entirely possible that Mr. Baum owes the little dog his life.