But it now occurred to him that there was something he could be doing right now—should be doing, actually, for he was feeling peckish. He ought to go shopping for a late supper. Luckily, the meat market was still open, for as he flew over a small clearing in the woods, he looked down and saw a pair of unsuspecting voles searching for mushrooms in the moonlight. It appeared that they had been at the job for some time, for they had already collected a full sack. The Professor swooped down, invited the larger vole to dinner, offered his apologies to the smaller for not having selected him (the owl was not wearing his flying vest and had no pocket in which to carry a passenger), and then flew off, with the reluctant guest in one claw and the sack of mushrooms in the other.

The Professor is something of a gourmand, so when he arrived at his beech tree, he flew directly to the kitchen and pulled his mother’s recipe for Vole à la Chateaubriand out of the recipe file. This dish required a turnip, a large carrot, two onions, a small marrow, thyme, rosemary, parsley, and pepper and salt, all of which he had in his larder. Oh, and of course the vole, who by now was past caring what sort of vegetables would accompany him to table. (If this sounds cruel, I must remind you that everyone has to eat, and that the vole himself had dined on several fat white grubs, a large earthworm, and a tasty mushroom just before the Professor invited him to dinner.) The Professor put both vole and vegetables into a large pot. While this was cooking, he prepared the sauce: fresh mushrooms and shallots sautéed in butter, with white wine, tarragon, and lemon juice. This was one of his favorite dishes, and while it strikes me as a little bit heavy for a late supper, I am not an owl, and have no business criticizing.

The owl laid his table, with a bouquet of winter grasses as a centerpiece. Then, whilst his supper continued to cook, he flew up to his observatory to take a few star-sightings. The observatory door bears this hand-lettered sign, which is both an announcement and a warning to those of the Professor’s guests who are taller than he and might get bumped.

As you may guess by the sign, the Professor (who is really very intelligent) is much better at astronomy than he is at spelling. I hope you will not hold this against him, since I’m sure you have one or two of your own spelling demons.

The Professor’s observatory, which has windows on all sides, is equipped with a telescope mounted on a swivel, allowing the observer to see the sky in all directions. It also contains a stool for perching and shelves for star charts, a globe, reference volumes, and the owl’s log books, with several writing implements at hand.

The owl spent some time studying various stars through his telescope and carefully noting their positions in his Obsrever’s Notebook, where he regularly records the details of his celestial research. Then he flew back down to the dining room to enjoy his vole, which he found much enriched by the vegetables and herbs and, of course, the sauce. With his meal, he took a small glass of red wine, a gift from his cousin, Old Brown, who was introduced to young readers by Miss Potter in The Tale of Squirrel Nutkin. The Professor had been a little annoyed by the book, for the author had made the silly, pestiferous squirrel into the principal character of the story, when it ought really to have Old Brown, who had shown a great deal of patient forbearance.

After his meal, the Professor retired with a cup of dandelion coffee to his favorite wing chair, where he put his feet on an ottoman and began to ponder the puzzle of the unfortunate Mr. Baum and his flying boat. It had been very good of Bosworth Badger, the owl reflected, to review the fundamental operating principles behind the aeroplane, at least so far as they were known. And while he himself was more at home with celestial mechanics than with the mechanical details of a man-made machine, he had finally understood. That is, he had grasped the fact that the thing he had seen in flight was not a living creature but a mechanical object, a combination of a boat and a motor car, but designed to take off and land from water and to fly through the air. And like the motor car, it fed on petroleum (petrol for short), which was wrung out of rocks. It did not consume (as he had at first feared) feathered or furred creatures such as the vole he had brought home to supper. This was a distinct relief, for the owl had imagined that such a large competitor would have an enormous appetite and would very quickly clean out the regional larder.

The badger’s explanations may have partly satisfied the Professor’s curiosity about this Water Bird, as Bosworth had said the thing was called, but they had raised even further concerns in the owl’s mind. No matter what Mr. Baum’s machine ate or didn’t eat, and no matter that it bore such an innocuous (and misleading!) name, it was an undeniable threat to the people and animals around Windermere. The noise of the beastly thing obviously terrified horses and sheep and cows. It was only a matter of time before a horse became so frightened that it lost its head and plunged over a cliff and killed itself and its rider, or the cows refused to give milk, or the ewes abandoned their lambs.

The Professor shuddered at the thought of dead horses and motherless lambs. But there was worse. Motor-car engines were notorious for stopping unexpectedly in the middle of nowhere and not starting again until they were towed to a mechanic who could bully them back into operation. What would happen if the aeroplane’s engine stopped when it was high in the air? Why, the thing would come right down, that’s what would happen—and it wouldn’t come down in a graceful glide, like other respectable birds, landing lightly on the earth, then giving its wings and its tail a shake to settle its feathers.

No.

It would fall straight down.

Fall like a stone.

And whoever was standing beneath it would be smashed flat. If it happened to fall onto a house or a barn or a church, many persons might be smashed flat. And then there would be a great hue-and-cry and letters to The Times and threats of lawsuits, none of which would matter in the slightest, of course, to those who were smashed and dead, although the lawsuits might bring some comfort to the living.

The Professor scowled, reminding himself irritably that this sort of thing was exactly what one had come to expect from these presumptuous humans, who had no respect for their place in the Great Chain of Being. If Mother Nature had intended them to fly like owls and angels, she would certainly have given them wings. But Nature had not chosen to do so, and attempts by humans at flight—like that of the legendary wax-winged Icarus—could only end in ignominy, or worse. Flying was a business that ought to be left to the professionals. To himself, for instance.

But Mr. Baum and his pilot obviously intended no such thing. They had loftier goals, and the more the Professor thought about the impertinence of their uninvited, unwelcome invasion of his skies (his skies!), the more incensed he became.

How dare they? How dare they! Really, something must be done, and the sooner the better.

But Mr. Baum had already plummeted (like Icarus) from the lofty heights of Oat Cake Crag and perhaps would not survive the night. Nothing to be done there. Moreover, the owl was rather full of vole (it had been a truly delicious meal), the hour was late, and the wine had put him into that pleasant state which is known to the colonial Australians as half-cocked. And of course, there was absolutely no point in flying across the lake in the middle of the night to do something about the Water Bird, since the creature was clearly not nocturnal and would be sound asleep in its barn until the next day.

Which is why the Professor put up no resistance at all when a nap crept up stealthily behind him and seized him by the scruff of the neck, throwing him bodily down upon his bed and refusing to let him up until the sun had risen above the eastern shore of Windermere, crossed the lake to Claife Heights, and was peering into his windows.

The owl woke from his slumber refreshed and hungry. As he was preparing breakfast (coffee, toast, and a lightly scrambled pigeon’s egg with a bit of kipper), he recalled his intention of the night before.

“Yes, indeed. Something must be done about that Water Bird,” he muttered to himself as he tucked his napkin under his chin and sat down to his egg. “But in order to know what, I shall first have to learn more about the creature’s flying habits. I must spy out its strengths and vulnerabilities. I must know something of the man who flies it—who he is and what his purposes are. I shall reconnoiter.” He munched on his toast, giving the matter more consideration. “But perhaps I should take a sandwich. I might not be back until tea.”

So when breakfast was over and the washing-up done, the owl made a sandwich of thickly sliced ham and onions between slices of buttered bread spread with his favorite Dijon mustard, and wrapped it in brown paper. Then he donned the khaki flying vest that he wore on longer aerial missions and stuck a pad and pencil stub in one pocket, a folded map in another, and the sandwich in a third. He wound a green wool muffler around his neck and put on his daytime flying goggles, the ones with the dark lenses. (As you know, owls’ eyes are adapted to night flight, and sunlight is uncomfortable.)

His preparations concluded, the Professor flew up to the top of his beech tree and took off in the direction of the lake. As he flew, he noted with some pride the power of his wings, the way he could change direction with the slightest flick of his tail, and how aerodynamically suited his feathers were to the flow of the air. If his engine failed (he could scarcely comprehend such a thing), he would not fall but would merely swoop down to the nearest treetop. All perfectly natural. All entirely perfect, just as Nature intended. And if you are thinking that perhaps our owl is just a little too smugly self-satisfied, I hope you will reconsider. In his owlness, he embodies everything to which the flying machine’s designer and builder might aspire. In my opinion, he has a right to feel smug.

Now, as it happened, the Professor’s flight path took him directly over Oat Cake Crag at the very same moment that Mr. Heelis picked up Mr. Baum’s spyglass and began looking across the lake. Curious, the owl tilted his wings and circled overhead, wondering what the four men were doing and why they had climbed the crag. It seemed clear that their activity had nothing to do with his mission, however. So the owl left them to their own devices, took a visual sighting, and flew across Belle Isle (the long island in the middle of the lake) to Cockshott Point, where the flying machine lived when it was not in the air.

The lake itself was no more than about three miles wide, so the owl’s flight was not a long one. It was, however, quite bouncy, for the breeze was blowing briskly from the north. The Professor was glad he was wearing his vest and woolen muffler, although he wished he had thought to bring some candied ginger. Ginger is a good remedy for airsickness, and after being buffeted and bounced about, the owl was feeling distinctly queasy. If he hadn’t been on such an important assignment, he would have turned around and flown home, for it was no sort of weather to be flying for fun. He was relieved when he arrived at his destination.

Cockshott is a grassy point, a favorite of trippers, ramblers, and people who just want to stand and admire the lake, which is certainly one of the loveliest in all England. The pretty finger of land juts out into the water very close to the picturesque, shore-side town of Bowness-on-Windermere. (The novelist Arthur Ransome called this town Rio, in his stories of Amazons and Swallows, which you may have read as a child.) When you visit, you will see that the busy little harbor is home to dozens of sailboats and fishing boats as well as the ferry that crosses over to the western side of the lake. It is really quite crowded most of the time, with boats going to and fro and hither and yon, just as it was at the time of our story.

And at the time of our story, Cockshott was also home to the Water Bird. When the flying boat was not in the air or on the water, it took shelter in a large, rickety-looking wooden hangar, with wide doors that opened at both the front and the rear. The hangar was built right at the lake’s edge, with a steep wooden slipway that slanted down over the rocks and into the water below. As the owl arrived and took up his observation post on a nearby pine tree, he saw that the machine was just emerging from its hangar and sliding gingerly down the slipway, winched down by ropes and accompanied by several men. This appearance had already attracted an excited crowd of spectators, pushing and jostling along the shore, pointing and shouting as the Water Bird slid clumsily down the ramp. The owl took out his notebook and pencil and began jotting down as much as he could make out of the machine’s appearance, construction, and operation, as a good spy should do.

Now, I should like to give you some technical details about this aeroplane that our owl is likely to miss. If you have no interest in the history or mechanical operations of this machine, you might wish to skip the following four paragraphs and go on to the one that begins “But in a few moments ...” If you do, please be assured that you won’t miss any important bits of story, although the description of the machine might help you to understand what is about to happen when Water Bird takes to the air.

Very well, then. If you have ever seen a biplane—that is, a plane with two canvas-covered wings, one stacked on top of the other like two pieces of cardboard held apart by toothpicks—you can easily picture how the Water Bird looked. Or you might want to look for a photograph in a book about early aeroplanes, under its name. I did, and discovered this interesting information: “The Lakes Water Bird is remembered as the first consistently successful British seaplane, developed by the Windermere based Lakes Flying Co, during 1911.”

Oh. You thought this aeroplane was something I had made up for the purposes of our story? Oh my dears, oh no, oh not at all! Water Bird was very real, and the way people—and especially Miss Potter—felt about it at the time was just as I have told you. In fact, in its day, the affair of the seaplane was rather a cause célèbre, with discussions in Parliament, articles in The Times, and a great deal of hullabaloo.

But to go on. This particular aeroplane was built in Manchester, England, and first flown on May 19, 1911. Then it was brought to Windermere, where its wheels were replaced with a pontoon and airbags and where it was flown for the first time on the following November 25. (If you are keeping track, you know that this is just four months before the beginning of our story.) The aeroplane’s top wing was forty-two feet long, the bottom thirty-two, and the body just over thirty-six feet long. Unlike most modern planes, this one was known as a “pusher,” and had an eight-foot-six-inch propeller mounted in the rear so that it pushed the plane forward, rather than pulling it through the air, as a forward propeller does. The motor (if you care about such things) was a fifty-horsepower Gnome nine-cylinder rotary engine, which is about the size of the motor on your neighbor’s outboard motor boat. Since the Water Bird was a hydroplane, it had no wheels, but rather a central mahogany pontoon or float, with a cylindrical airbag (known locally as a “Wakefield sausage”) slung under each of the lower wings. When it settled into the water, it was buoyed up by the pontoon and stabilized by the airbags. Like all early planes, Water Bird lacked a cockpit or any sort of enclosed body, and was mostly a matter of wings, a tail, and struts. The pilot sat on the leading edge of the lower wing and managed the motor, rudder, and ailerons. There was a second seat behind the pilot, in case someone wanted to fly along.

And in this case, someone did, as the Professor, still taking notes in his lookout tree, could plainly see. The pilot, a wiry, dark-bearded fellow, sat in front, giving orders to the men who were assisting Water Bird down the ramp. A passenger was perched in the second seat, holding on to the struts with both hands and looking as if he already regretted his wish to go up in the air—and they hadn’t even left yet.

But in a few moments, the machine, the pilot, and the passenger were safely bobbing on the water in front of the slipway. Someone gave the propeller a hard turn, and the engine sputtered to life. The spectators cheered and threw their hats in the air and shouted, “Good luck! Stay out of the water!” and “Hope you come back in one piece!”

And then the hydroplane began to move, maneuvering clumsily amongst the crowded moorings and out to the choppy open water of the lake, where the wind was blowing hard—too hard, the owl thought, to make a takeoff possible. But this did not deter the pilot. After a moment, he turned the aeroplane into the wind and speeded up his engine. The propeller turned faster and faster until it was nothing but a blur, and the Water Bird began to bounce and skip across the white-capped waves, its wings tipping first to one side and then the other. The Professor thought it looked for all the world like an ugly, ungainly duckling who wanted to fly but wasn’t exactly sure how to get off the water and into the air.

And then, as the owl watched, Water Bird took to the sky, rising just a few feet at first, then higher and higher, until it was twenty, then fifty, then a hundred feet in the air. From the crowd on the shore came a great shout, whether of triumph or disappointment the owl couldn’t say. He knew enough about the human temperament to suspect that half of the spectators longed to see the aeroplane fly successfully whilst half longed to see it crash.

But if the owl wanted to find out more about Water Bird’s strengths and vulnerabilities in flight, he would have to get closer. He pocketed his pad and pencil, flew out of his tree, and stroking with his powerful wings, easily caught up to the aeroplane, which seemed to be having a bit of a hard go, struggling to gain speed and altitude against the powerful headwind. The owl himself, a much more accomplished flier, did not like flying into such a blustery breeze, but he was on a serious spy mission and now was not the time to worry about a few gusts.

So for a few minutes, the Professor (not wanting to call attention to himself) cruised just behind and below the lower wingtip, out of sight of the pilot and the passenger. He noted that the engine was very, very loud (imagine a motor boat’s outboard motor running at top speed not ten feet from your head) and that its violent operation seemed to make the struts hum and vibrate. He saw that the flimsy wings flexed in the air currents, and that the rudder swung from side to side as the pilot steered the machine. He also saw there were clumsy-looking hinged flaps on the trailing edges of the wings, apparently used to maintain or restore the flying balance, and that the pilot operated these by bamboo poles.

“Poles!” the Professor thought scornfully. “How very primitive.” He flexed his own sturdy wing feathers, which were perfectly configured to do exactly the same thing without a single conscious thought on his part—and certainly required no bamboo poles. None of his other observations struck him as very significant, though. The machine did not appear to be at all sturdy, and the pilot had to manipulate a great many moving parts, and of course, the engine had to operate continuously to keep it from falling out of the sky. But Water Bird was flying. In fact, it was flying very well.

And then, suddenly, it wasn’t. The motor, which had been running more or less smoothly, gave a series of abrupt hiccups, coughed, sputtered, and stopped. In the dead silence, the owl could hear the panicked passenger cry out, “What’s happened? Why has it stopped?”

The pilot was working furiously to get the engine started again, but he was unsuccessful, and the aeroplane—which was really very rickety—put its nose down, hesitated for a heartbeat, and then began a perilously steep dive toward the water, some hundred or so feet below. The passenger gave an earsplitting shriek. The Professor, amazed, held his breath. He had never seen such a thing before. Would Water Bird fall into the lake and sink like a stone? Or would it plunge like a loon beneath the waves and come up a little farther on with a fish in the pilot’s lap?

It didn’t do either. The pilot, still wrestling the controls and with the passenger screaming hysterically in his ear, managed to pull the machine up at the last minute so that it landed on its center pontoon. It hit the water hard, bounced ten feet into the air, then bounced again, and again, one wing up, one wing down. Then one wing-tip airbag caught the surface of the water and spun the machine around. Both men were catapulted out of their seats and into the water, where they clung to the floating aeroplane, which appeared to have crumpled its right wing and broken its tail.

“Help!” the passenger shrieked frantically. “Help, somebody! I can’t swim! I don’t want to drown!”

“That’s enough,” commanded the pilot. “Be quiet. You’re not going to drown. Hang on. The Bird floats.”

And so it did, after a fashion. Since one of the wing airbags was damaged, the aeroplane seemed to be listing heavily. Luckily, however, there was a sailboat not far away and it came to the rescue immediately. The yachtsman dropped the mainsail, furled the jib, and paddled up to the floating plane. He pulled both men into his boat, the pilot obviously chagrined, the passenger clearly angry. “I want my money back,” the owl heard the passenger demand loudly. “I wasn’t counting on a crash.”

It didn’t take long for a pair of small boats to rush out from Cockshott Point, attach lines to the floating Water Bird, and tow it back to shore, whilst the pilot directed the operation by shouting instructions from the sailboat. The Professor, curious, followed closely and perched in a nearby tree to watch as the pilot and two other men winched the crippled aeroplane back up the slipway and into the hangar.

The spectators were watching, too, all of them exceedingly well satisfied. They had seen the aeroplane dive into the lake and could go home and tell everyone all about it (with plenty of exaggeration, of course). It wouldn’t be long before the entire district knew that the Water Bird’s engine had failed and that it had gone down right in the middle of Windermere with a mighty splash. It was only by the grace of God and the extraordinary skill of the pilot (and the lucky fact that a sailboat was nearby) that the lives of the two men aboard were saved.

The passenger, of course, was the brave Hero of the Moment, and made the best of his wetting by telling everyone what a thrilling ride it had been up to the moment the engine quit and how he had escaped death by a hair’s-breadth when the machine plunged into the ice-cold water, never saying a word (of course) about his fears of drowning or his frantic cries for help. As for the aeroplane—well! It looked to be a total loss, with one wing torn nearly off and the tail severely damaged. Surely this would be the end of Water Bird, which naturally pleased some (those of the “If God had wanted people to fly” opinion) and distressed others (those who felt that since the Germans were building aeroplanes, the British ought to be sharpish about it). With these and other similar remarks and still discussing the matter excitedly amongst themselves, the crowd dispersed.

By that time, our spy had become more audacious. There was a great deal of commotion and everybody was fully engaged with what was directly in front of them. So the Professor flew into the aeroplane’s hangar and perched on one of the rafters, high above in the darkness. He took off his dark goggles, pulled out his notepad and pencil, and (like any good spy) began making notes about what he heard.

He heard plenty. One of the men, a tall blond man whose name was Anderson, walked around the Water Bird, surveying the injured wing and damaged tail section with a grim shake of the head.

“Broken struts, cracked ribs, torn canvas, wrecked airbag—and who knows what went wrong with the motor,” he said darkly. “The repairs are going to cost a pretty penny. Baum’s not going to like it. You know how he feels, Oscar. He may decide not to pay.”

“Baum’s in no condition to decide to anything today,” said the pilot, Oscar Wyatt—the very man we were hoping to get a close look at. He was thin and wiry, with dark hair and a neatly trimmed dark beard and mustache. “Fellow’s laid up with a cracked head and a broken arm and a leg. They’ve taken him to Raven Hall. I tried to see him this morning, but was prevented.” He frowned. “Said it was doctor’s orders.”

“A cracked head?” a third man asked, startled. “Broken bones? How’d that happen? And when? He was here yesterday afternoon, bustlin’ about and getting in the way, as he allus does. ’Tis a pity he’s been hurt.”

“A great pity,” Anderson agreed. He stepped away from the aeroplane and folded his arms. He gave Wyatt a narrow look. “Especially if it means that we’re not going to be able to repair the Bird. If Baum’s laid up, where’s the money coming from?”

“I have good news,” Oscar Wyatt said, and laughed roughly. “I’ve located another potential investor. I’m seeing this person this evening. If I’m successful—well, I’ll tell you, boys. This person has enough money to take care of any problem we could encounter, and then some.”

“Another investor?” Anderson gave him a narrow look. “Why do we need another investor? Is Mr. Baum pulling out?”

Wyatt didn’t answer.

Anderson repeated the question. “Is Baum pulling out? And who’s this other investor you’ve found?”

“Never you mind, Anderson. The person prefers to remain anonymous, and anyway, the deal isn’t done yet. But I’m confident enough that it will be that I’m telling you to carry on. Get that wing repaired. Build a new airbag. Patch up the tail. Fix the engine. Do whatever’s necessary.”

Anderson wouldn’t give it up. “But what about Mr. Baum?” he asked insistently. “Does he know about this new ‘investor’? Does he want these repairs made?”

Wyatt pulled himself up. “I am telling you, Anderson, to—”

“The thing is,” Anderson cut in, “that Mr. Baum told us that he was drawing the line at any more expenditure.” He turned to the third man. “You heard him, didn’t you, Tommy? You were standing right there when he said he wasn’t putting another penny into this machine. It either flies or it doesn’t, he said, but he’s not—”

“And I’m telling you to stop worrying about Baum!” Wyatt shouted. “That’s not for you to bother your head about, d’you hear? My job is to find the money to get this aeroplane into flying condition and take it back up in the air. Your job is to get the repairs done—and bloody quick, too. Churchill and his military men will be here in three days. They’ll expect to see the Bird take the air. And we’re going to make it happen.”

In the rafters, the owl blinked. Churchill? Winston Churchill?

Anderson was even more surprised than the Professor. “Churchill?” he exclaimed, staring. “Churchill, from the Admiralty? He’s really coming, then? You’re not just larkin’?”

“Right,” Wyatt said flatly. “He’s really coming, and he says he wants to go up in the Bird—maybe even use her in his Royal Flying Corp. No time for games now, boys. It’s a matter of the national defense. So stop your jabberwocky and open up that engine. I want to know what happened up there. Why the motor quit. It’s never done that before.”

Tommy cleared his throat. “Could’ve been the petrol,” he offered diffidently. “Water in it, mebbee? That would’ve made the pistons stop firin’.”

“Water in the petrol?” Wyatt asked, his eyes narrowing. “How could that have happened?”

Tommy gave a careless shrug, not quite meeting Wyatt’s eyes. “The petrol tank is right outside the door, ain’t it? Anybody could’ve poured water in it, couldn’t they?”

Anderson stared at him. “Are you suggesting sabotage, Tommy?” he asked in a disbelieving tone. “You don’t really think—”

“Not suggestin’ anything,” Tom said blandly. “I’m just sayin’, is all.”

Wyatt’s mouth hardened. He turned to Anderson. “I want a twenty-four-hour guard put on this place, Anderson. All day, all night. You got that?”

“A guard!” Anderson whistled. “That’ll cost as much as the repairs.”

Wyatt slammed his fist against his palm. “I don’t care what it costs!” he shouted. “I want that engine repaired, the wing and tail put to rights, and a guard on this place. Nothing more is going to go wrong here. Do you hear me?”

“Yes, sir,” Anderson said mildly, but with more than a hint of sarcasm. “You’re the man who’s getting the money, so you’re the boss.”

“As long as you understand that, we’ll get along just fine,” Wyatt growled in a sour tone. “Now, you get to work.”

The Professor watched as Anderson and the man called Tommy busied themselves around the plane, tending to its crumpled wing, opening the engine. Oscar Wyatt lingered for a time, watching, as if he didn’t quite trust them to do the job. After a while, he said he was going out to have a talk with the “new investor” and would see them tomorrow, at which point he expected major progress to be made on the repairs. The minute he was gone, Anderson laid down the tool he was holding and shook his head.

“I don’t like this, Tommy,” he said in a low voice. “I don’t like this one bit. Baum said there’d be no more repairs, and now he’s laid up and Wyatt’s got money from a ‘new investor,’ whatever that means. And I’m supposed to hire a twenty-four-hour guard.”

“I was thinkin’ ’bout that,” Tom said. “I got a friend who’s lookin’ for work. He could stand night guard. He’ll work cheap.”

“Tell him to come by and talk to me,” Anderson replied shortly. He was scowling. “You know, I’ve got half a mind to go over to Raven Hall this evening and see what I can find out from Baum.”

“I wouldn’t if I were you,” cautioned Tom in a practical tone. “I agree that it ain’t good, this business, but I can’t see as you can do anything about it. Baum’s out of the way and Wyatt is runnin’ things here. He made it plain. If we want to get paid, we do as he says. That’s how I see it, anyway.”

Anderson hesitated, then nodded reluctantly. “I suppose you’re right,” he said, going back to work. “But if you ask me, something’s fishy here. I wonder how Baum got that cracked head.”

And so, of course, do we. But our spy has begun to feel that there’s nothing more to be learned from these two men and has decided to abandon his station—and anyway, he is feeling the pangs of hunger. It has been, all told, a rather long morning. He finishes taking his last note, quietly pockets his pad and pencil, and flies silently out of the hangar, a dark shadow against the darkness of the roof over the crippled Water Bird.

The flight back across the lake doesn’t take long. Fifteen minutes later, the Professor has landed in the tall tree at Oat Cake Crag, where he pulls out his ham-and-onion sandwich and begins to eat. While he is eating, he reviews his notes, considering what he has seen and heard over the past several hours. It has been a very busy and eventful several hours, to be sure. His mission has been—at least in the Professor’s view—remarkably productive.

Of course, while the owl has been spying, other things have been going on in the area. Mr. Heelis has returned to his solicitor’s office in Hawkshead. Captain Woodcock has gone back to Tower Bank House to have luncheon with his loving wife. Mr. Baum continues to lie, white and unmoving, in a guestroom bed at Raven Hall, tended to by Dimity Kittredge, who is hoping that Dr. Butters will be able to stop in during the afternoon to check on his patient.

And while all these things have been happening, Miss Potter has been making her way toward—

But I think perhaps we should start a new chapter.