Junkin Buckley muttered as he crashed through the dense shrubbery of the forest. “Where do they get off? Sending me away like I was rubbish. Yesterday’s fish and chips.” He shrugged. “No matter. Things will be different soon enough!” Thinking about the future lifted his mood. Instead of crashing on twigs and branches with stomping feet, he practically danced through the woods. “Hubsy-bubsy wokka wobsu hipsy-dipsy bokka rubsy,” he chanted, picking up his feet in little jiglike steps. He stopped and looked around, searching the dark woods for the landmarks he’d memorized. Almost at the meeting spot, he realized, hurrying along. I know there’s need of secrecy, but did the old guv’nor have to choose such a shadowy wicked dark place for us to meet? He stopped again. This is the place, ain’t it? He peered around. Yup! There’s the gnarled oak tree—there’s the stump scarred by lightning. “Anybody there?” Junkin called. “Hello? Yer honor?” “Good evening, Junkin Buckley.”
