Witch's Business by Diana Wynne Jones Page A

startled guests and the charging gang. The guests were obviously useless. It was just as useless to run away. So Jess put her head down and charged at the gang.
    â€œYou beastly horrible bullies!” she screamed.
    To her amazement, all nine of them stopped dead. Buster, who was the nearest, began to back away, screwing his face up against her. “Hey!” he said. “You body-parts well stop that, Jessica Pirie. What are you doing ?” Behind him, Stafford fell over another croquet hoop in his hurry to get away. Jess could hardly believe it and could not understand it at all, but she went on toward them.
    â€œStop it!” shrieked two younger ones.
    â€œI say! This is a bit thick!” said a guest. “What’s going on?”
    â€œYou boil your head,” said Buster, “if you can’t stop her.”
    The guest opened and shut his mouth. Before he could say anything, a French window in the side of the house came crashing open, and out onto the lawn came leaping a rather tubby man with a ginger mustache. After him came Martin.
    â€œYou bunch of little hoodlums!” roared this man. He came leaping and bounding down on Buster. “Get out of here, or I’ll call the police!” he shouted. Jess realized he must be Mr. Taylor, and she blessed Martin for fetching him.
    â€œSave your breath,” said Buster. “We’re just going.” This was true. The rest of the gang, at the mere sight of Mr. Taylor, went scuttling away across the croquet lawn. Stafford was picking himself up to follow. Buster was poised on one leg, ready to run, but he just could not resist being rude first. He put out his tongue before he ran.
    Mr. Taylor gave a roar like a lion’s and fetched him a swipe that must have made his head ring. “That’s for your impertinence!” he said. “Get out!” Buster staggered, shook his head—not meaning to say no, but because his ears were singing—and ran like a weasel after the rest. Mr. Taylor swung round at Jess. “And you! What do you think you’re doing, messing up the croquet like this?”
    â€œWe’re sorry,” said Jess.
    â€œShe’s a friend of mine,” Martin said quickly. “They all are, Dad.”
    â€œThey were chasing us, Mr. Taylor,” Vernon explained, limping up beside Martin.
    Mr. Taylor looked them all over, including Frankie and Jenny, pulling his mustache suspiciously. “Oh, they are, are they?” he said. Then he took a dive round at Martin. “Then, if they’re your friends, boy, you should know better than to let them create this kind of disturbance. All over the croquet! It’s too bad, Martin! Get them away. Take the lot of them inside and give them tea, or something. Only—” Mr. Taylor put his hands in the air and roared again, until everyone’s ears throbbed. “Only get them out of it! ”
    â€œYes, Dad,” said Martin.

SEVEN
    Five minutes later, they were all sitting stiffly in a small, clean sitting room, and Mrs. Taylor was setting out tea things on several little round tables. She would not let Jess help, nor Frankie and Jenny. For some reason, she seemed to think that the two Adams girls were Jess’s sisters.
    â€œAren’t they sweet!” she said. “You must feel like a little mother to them.”
    â€œNot quite, really,” Jess said, while Frankie and Jenny sat side by side on a sofa like two fierce mice and glared from Jess to Mrs. Taylor.
    â€œI love little girls!” said Mrs. Taylor. “I’ve always wanted one of my own. I make a lot of fuss of Vernon’s little sisters. Don’t you think they’re sweet?”
    â€œYes,” said Jess, and Vernon wriggled rather.
    Mrs. Taylor, perhaps because she liked girls so much, was a little sharp with the boys. She told Martin not to fidget and Vernon to mind his feet against the table. She asked Frank whether his hands were