Dorro returned to the Perch, tired and exasperated. He’d been gone for over a day and needed a bath, food, and a full night’s sleep—in that exact order. The bookmaster stoked up the fire under his oven, and after checking his larder, put a few chicken pies in the oven, hoping that Wyll would be home for dinner soon. Perhaps Cheeryup would appear, too, which would make his job easier.
Dorro followed with a hot bath, in which he promptly fell asleep. A half an hour later, he rousted himself from the tub, dressed in his night robe and went out to finish dinner. By this time, the pies were bubbling along nicely. He complemented the main course with a loaf of rye bread, fresh butter, and a jar of Summer blueberries for dessert. He’d top them off with a few spoonfuls of fresh cream and perhaps a sprig or two of mint.
As if on cue, the door to the burrow opened, and in strode Wyll and Cheeryup. “There you scamps are! I hope you’re staying for dinner, young lady,” chastised Dorro with mock gravity. They nodded yes, so he promptly sent them to the privy to wash up for supper. Eventually, they were all seated at the kitchen table and devouring the chicken pies crafted by the inestimable, if sometimes cantankerous Mrs. Fowl down the lane. They chatted about the Dwarves, the health of Mrs. Tunbridge (not good), and the state of Thimble Down (even worse).
Dorro waited until they were on their blueberries to bring up the incident at Mr. Bindlestiff’s office. Wyll and Cheeryup froze, but slowly took stock of their actions. Wyll explained their motley plan to find incriminating documents, while Cheeryup bravely took responsibility for the maneuver in the first place.
“I’m glad you realize you did wrong, children,” began Dorro, “Yet I’m disappointed. I admit, I’m not the best role model in the village, but this was your most foolish prank yet. If Fibbhook had discovered you in the office instead of Crumble, you might not be here right now. He would have been well within his rights to have you tossed in gaol. Even as Sheriff, I would have no authority to stop him. You broke our laws!”
“But Mr. Dorro, we meant well,” said Cheeryup meekly.
“But nothing, young lady. And you, most of all, using your feminine charms to get poor Orli to do your bidding. This must stop right now!”
Laying down his spoon, Dorro continued: “Wyll, you’re my nephew—I’d have thought you would have learned by now what is lawful and which is not. Certainly, we’ve pushed the limits before, you and I, but this is nothing but theft. My nephew, a common thief! I’m ashamed of you, though it truly pains me to say that.”
“Wyll tried to talk us out of it, Mr. Dorro!” plead Cheeryup. “He really did.”
“That may be so, but still, a thief in the family. What would your good mother say?”
“I am not a thief!” screamed Wyll, standing up and his face red. “Stop calling me that!”
“How you dare speak to me like that, boy?” Dorro was shocked. “I give you a good home and you go off and burgle the neighbors. And now this!”
At that, the tousled-hair boy kicked his chair back until it slammed back onto the floor. “In that case, I shall live somewhere else, Uncle Dorro!”
Wyll Underfoot ran from the burrow, awash in anger and bewilderment, knowing not at all what he was going to do next.
* * *
At almost the precise same moment, Orli the Dwarf had a very similar argument with his father. Crumble accused him of being a thief and liar, a notion that drove Orli into a rage. Like Wyll, he lashed back at his father and stormed from the Dwarves’ dank burrow, just looking for fresh air and an escape from his family.
It was only too ironic when the two boys ran into each other—quite literally—in one of Thimble Down’s quieter lanes.
“Ow!”
“Hey, watch it!”
“Orli?”
“Wyll? What are you doing here?”
“I ran away from home,” snarled the Halfling boy. “My dear uncle thinks I’m an embarrassment to his snooty ancestors!”
“Me, too!” said Orli. “My pa wants me to go back to the Northern Kingdom and learn how to be a respectable Dwarf again. Phooey!”
“So what are you going to do?”
“Run away,” uttered Orli with complete solemnity. “I shall never see my family again.”
“Same here—I’m running away” declared Wyll. “Hey, let’s run away together! There are caves by the river that are snug, and we can hunt and fish. And before we go, we can go to the library and get heavy jackets, boots, fishing rods, and blankets to keep us warm. Uncle Dorro keeps extras in a closet there.”
“But isn’t that stealing?” wondered Orli aloud.
“Both Uncle Dorro and your Pa already think we’re thieves,” said Wyll. “So let’s prove ’em right! We’ll go live by the river as outlaws, and steal and plunder as we please!”
“Yeah!” glowed the Dwarf boy. “Since they say we’re rotten, let’s be rotten!”
At that, Wyll Underfoot and Orli the Dwarf shook hands and sped off into the cold October night, the thrill of the unknown driving their every step.