The Fire Within (The Last Dragon Chro) Read Online Free PDF

dozen shrubs to plant by then, so if you want my help you’d better make it quick.”
    “Squirrels,” said David. “Where can I see some?”
    “Squirrels?” George trumpeted. “What do you want with them? Pesky little varmints. Bane o’ my life. Bite the buds off my saplings, dig up my bulbs, plant their stinking nuts in my lawns. There’s one,” he said, beckoning David closer, “that lives up the beech near the fountain back there.” He pointed vaguely into the distance. “Mean little villain, that one. Plays tricks onme for fun, I reckon. You can’t miss him. He’s got a
look.”
    “A look?” repeated David.
    “A great big
smile.
”
    David cast a doubtful glance toward the fountain.
    “Oh, yeah,” said George, sucking mud off his finger. “Little pest was in my pottin’ shed last week. Stole my ham sandwich, he did.”
    David did his best to form a sympathetic look. “And where did you say I’d find him — them?”
    “Go down the embankment,” Mr. Digwell said, pointing along the narrow path that tumbled helter-skelter through the thicket of trees, “all the way to the fencin’ at the bottom. Take the left-hand path around the front of the bandstand and keep going over the duck pond bridge. Go through the clearing where the big oak stands, and the beeches are right on up from there.”
    David gave a cordial nod and crunched off down the path. He’d gone less than five paces when he turned and said: “Mr. Digwell, can I ask you something else?”
    The gardener sighed and leaned on a pitchfork.
    “How might a squirrel lose an eye?”
    George muttered something under his breath. He lifted his fork and forced it ominously into the ground. “Could be any number o’ reasons. Accident. Disease. Likeliest cause is somethin’ attacked it.”
    “A cat?”
    “Yeah, maybe. Tomcat’d most likely kill it, though. They don’t take many prisoners, cats.”
    David nodded. Maybe Bonnington wasn’t as dippy as he looked. “What about another squirrel?”
    George beat his chest and spat a glob of phlegm into a leaf-blocked drain. “Nah. Squirrels, they squabble and bluster a lot, pull out fur, bite toes, perhaps. But an eye? No, that’s somethin’ bigger. Fox. Dog. Man, maybe.”
    David looked at the gardener, hard.
    George threw his pitchfork into the bottom of the cart. “Tree rats ain’t a protected species. If they’re a nuisance, boy, people remove ‘em.” He drew a sharp line across his neck.
    “What sort of people?” David asked.
    “People who don’t like pests,” said George. “Now, if you have no more questions, I’ve got my plantin’ to do.” And pushing his two-wheeled cart ahead of him, he strode off down the winding path, until he was no bigger than another dead leaf, tumbling out of the autumn sky.

T HE W ISHING F OUNTAIN
     
    W hen the gardener was out of sight, David set off in search of the beech trees. He followed the path around as George had suggested until the ground leveled out at the foot of the embankment and the path split into two. To his left, the bandstand poked into view, half hidden by a weeping willow. To his right was another large bank of trees. In front of him now was a sun-speckled pond. Mallards and rails were resting near the shore. A few paddleboats were moored to a makeshift dock. David clattered across the narrow arched bridge and strolled into the clearing toward the great oak. The ground there was littered with acorns, many still wedged into their knobby gray cups. David croucheddown and picked one up. It was greenish brown and not quite firm — softened, perhaps, by early morning dew. He jiggled it in the palm of his hand. He began to think then about Wayward Crescent and the oak tree that had once stood there. What was Conker eating if it wasn’t acorns? Peanuts from a bird feeder? Bacon rinds? Did he have a secret cache of nuts? Was it because of a fight for food that his eye had become so badly hurt? David sighed and dropped the acorn