The Toad had been having a trying day. This was not the Toad who was later to become the Terror of the Highway: the carefree and generous Toad, the affable and ingenious Toad, about whom many songs were later to be sung (chiefly by him). No, he was currently engaged in frightening the river-bankers and infuriating the outdoor staff with his present passion for bicycling, a passion which he had informed his father was the ideal, indeed the only occupation for a modern young gentleman, and to which he intended to devote the remainder of his days (or at any rate the summer vacation). It was proving a somewhat expensive hobby so far, as evidenced by the number of crooked handlebars and snapped spokes lying about the stable yard. Toad Senior felt the pinch to his pocket book with irritation. He had rather hoped the masters would have drilled some sense into the lad this last term, but this appeared not to have been the case. Still, the poor, motherless boy deserved some enjoyment while he was still young. Responsibility would come all too soon.

Beside the rather wearing antics of his son, however, there had been other annoyances. The housekeeper (a solid and determined hedgehog of somewhat prickly disposition) had taken it into her head that today would be an ideal day to begin a thorough (and in Toad's opinion unnecessary) clean of all carpets, curtains and occasional furnishings. Consequently, Toad Hall was become a very whirlwind of dust-sheets, carpet beaters and scurrying housemaids, both within and without. The squire himself had retreated to the relative safety of the rose garden, only to find himself called upon by Dr and Mrs Vole. The latter of whom had pressed him most persistently to revive the Toad Hall Garden Party that had been such a feature when his wife was alive.

"Oh do consider it, Mr Toad, do." Mrs Vole had inclined her head like a schoolgirl while helping herself to another piece of sponge cake. "Not that I miss it in particular you understand, but along the riverbank it was always so anticipated. Quite the highlight of the summer."

"Highlight, don't you know?" Dr Vole had echoed, stirring in his third lump of sugar with gusto.

Toad had muttered grudgingly that he would consider it.

"Oh thank you, Mr Toad, thank you," Mrs Vole had cried, before he had had time to qualify that it was by no means a fixed thing. "You don't know what this will mean to the Ladies' Guild. I must say, this strawberry jam is quite superb. You must get your housekeeper to send me her recipe."

Really, thought Toad when they had finally gone, leaving only an assortment of cake crumbs and the dregs of his finest assam tea, there was more than something to be said for living as his friend Badger did. Of course, one could never really go back to it after knowing the influence of the fairer sex, and then there was the reputation and example to keep up, but all the same there was a great attraction in being able to put one's feet up on the brazier, not trouble to dress for dinner, and merely shout, "Go away!" when one wished to be left in peace.

Toad examined the contents of the teapot with a disappointed sigh that turned into a yawn. It was now the lazy part of the afternoon, when the shade of the mature beech and elm are more welcome than ever, and thoughts turn to drifting aimlessly on calm waters and staring at the clouds. The river would now be abuzz with the wings of the damsel and dragonfly; the swoop of the swallow's tail or the jewelled flash of the kingfisher the only sudden movement.

"And here am I, unable to get a moment's peace in my own home," Toad groaned.

He rang the bell for Natterjack; feeling relieved that he had not offered the Voles a glass of his Mediera wine, but thinking he would be glad of one himself after his ordeal.

"Oh, for some means of escape!" he sighed, closing his eyes. "Some glorious adventure to take me far from here. Some realm of heroes, perchance, where an animal is still his own master and afternoon callers are strictly prohibited."

It will be seen from this that (in private moments at any rate) the Toad was more romantic and less stiffly responsible than he liked others to think. Even as he closed his eyes, the thought of damsels and dragons conjured up a rich landscape ancient in story through which he, Toad, strode like a hero of old, bearing aloft his trusty blade and…

He opened his eyes. Natterjack had still not come. Where was the creature? Toad rang the bell again, more impatiently this time. Its piercing sound drove out the last of his daydream. ("Stuff and nonsense anyway," Toad muttered.) Still no butler arrived. It occurred to Toad that, what with the shouts of annoyance from the stable yard, the "Whoopees" of his transported son, and the sneezes of housemaids who had beaten too many carpets, he simply could not be heard.

"Bother!" he said.