happened to all the other mice around here?” Cob asked.
“What do you mean?” Ben asked, giving the spider a sharp look.
“’Bout six months ago, they all started to disappear . . .”
Ben wondered at that. “Some voles warned me about lots of predators in the neighborhood. Maybe the cats ate them.”
“That’s not what I hear,” Cob said. “I hear they just got up and went east, in ones or twos, wandering into the mountains. With all of the snow up there, the web was down all winter, but there’s many an eye that seen ’em go.”
Ben grunted. “I’ll ask around.”
“I like your spunk, kid,” the spider said. “Word on the web is that you’re out to free some mice. We spiders are taking bets. Odds are a million to one against you making it out of the pet shop alive.”
“Never tell me the odds,” Ben said, angrily. But he was curious. “Why so low?”
“You got enemies, kid,” Cob said. “But I tell you what, I’ll bet a greenbottle fly on you.”
Ben took his needle in hand and hopped down from the workbench. There was a bag of walnuts in a corner, so he went to it, dug through the shells, and found one to use as a helmet. He put it on, but it kept popping off. He finally got it to stick in place, sort of, by scrunching his ears just right, then went to his dad’s fishing pole, lying on the floor. It had a size 14 egg hook on it—three little golden hooks really, welded together into a triangle. It kind of looked like a grappling hook. Ben bit off six feet of leader, coiled it like a rope, and clutched it in one paw.
“Now any cat that tries to eat me will get a hook caught in its mouth,” Ben said. It was hard to carry everything—the light, the grappling hook, the spear.
“Hey, looks like you could use a couple of extra legs,” Cob said. “I’d gladly give you a pair of mine. Never could figure out what to do with all of ’em.”
“Thanks for the offer,” Ben said. “Good-bye, Cob.”
“Bye,” Cob said.
Ben dove through the hole under the door, and as he did, he became aware of a huge fuzzy shadow overhead. Something pounced, then grasped him cruelly, knocking the spear from his hand, along with his grappling hook and light.
There, in the garish green glow thrown by the magic stone, Ben saw an enormous raccoon, its evil eyes glinting behind its black mask, its gray grizzled fur sticking out everywhere. It hunched over him, larger than the Sphinx. Its claws were longer than the blade of a scythe, and its cruel teeth were each sharper than spears.
“Gotcha!” the raccoon said.
Ben’s heart pounded a thousand times a minute, and he felt sick all over. A moment ago, he’d felt so safe, and now all of his weapons were gone, useless. His mind went blank as he tried to consider what to do.
Buy time, he thought. The raccoon pulled Ben up toward its mouth, using a finger to flick Ben’s walnut shell helmet from his head. The helmet went plunking to the ground.
“Aren’t you going to wash before you eat me?” Ben asked. “I thought raccoons always washed first.”
“Not if we’re hungry enough,” the coon said, shoving Ben eagerly toward his mouth.
“Oh,” Ben said. “Then I’m dreadfully sorry.”
The raccoon stopped, eyeing him curiously. “Sorry for what?”
“I think . . . I think . . . I think I just pooped in your paw.”
The raccoon screamed, hurling Ben to the ground. The beast held up its paws as if they had been burned.
Ben hit the pavement rolling. He grabbed his needle, somersaulted, and came up with it at the ready. With one free paw, he grabbed up his helmet and jammed it onto his head, then held it in place.
The raccoon was staring at its paws in horror. “Hey,” it said, “you didn’t poop!”
Ben menaced the giant with his spear. “You want a piece of me? Go ahead, make my day!”
The raccoon backed up an inch, then seemed to find his courage. “Hey, I ain’t afraid of no mouse!”
“Hay is for horses,” Ben shouted,