Rascal: Facing the Flames. Chris Cooper
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Collect all of Rascal’s adventures:
First published as Tramp: Facing the Flames by Puffin in 2003
This edition first published in Great Britain in 2015
by Egmont UK Limited
The Yellow Building, 1 Nicholas Road, London W11 4AN
Text copyright © 2003 Chris Cooper
Illustration copyright © 2015 James de la Rue
The moral rights of the author and illustrator have been asserted
First e-book edition 2015
ISBN: 978 1 4052 7531 6
Ebook ISBN: 978 1 7803 1671 0
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library
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For Uncle Leonard and Aunt Sandy
CONTENTS
The sun had passed its noontime high point in the sky, but it still beat down fiercely. The shade of the forest offered Rascal little protection from its heat. Even the strong wind was hot and dry and gave no relief from the sun’s rays. More than anything in the world, Rascal wanted water right now – a long, cool drink of delicious water. He was hungry too, of course, but he could get along without food for now – he’d had a lot of practice at that recently, after all. But no living thing could survive long without water. If he didn’t get a drink soon, he would be unable to take another step.
Many dogs would have stopped already; stopped and just lain down in the shade until the cool of the evening arrived. But Rascal would not give up. Whenever he felt as if he couldn’t go on, the thought of who waited for him at journey’s end spurred him on. Joel! It was the thought of his master, Joel, that had kept Rascal going for the hundreds of miles he had travelled so far. And it was the thought of Joel that would keep him going for the many miles that lay ahead too.
Now, if he could just find a drink of water . . .
He wasn’t the only one thinking this way. It seemed that the whole forest around him was also crying out for water. It had struggled for too long without a drop of rain in this scorching summer. For days Rascal had thought that the drought would end, but somehow he always seemed to run ahead of the bank of clouds to the east.
The evidence of the dry season was all around Rascal in the pale colours of the foliage. The lower branches of the trees were a dusty grey and the grasses and brush were more a washed-out yellow than a healthy green. Shrivelled brown leaves crackled beneath the dog’s feet and brittle pine needles dug into the pads on his paws.
As he neared the ridge that ran along the top of this hill, he heard a sound above the noise of the wind. It was human voices, laughing. He could also hear the low crackle of a campfire and the smell of roasted meat.
Soon Rascal could see four people – two women and two men, all in their early twenties – sitting outside their badly pitched tents, which flapped precariously in the wind. One of the men was prodding a long stick into the campfire. Several objects wrapped in tinfoil sat in the fire.
‘Don’t think these potatoes are done yet,’ said the man.
No one seemed to mind. They were all finishing off hamburgers which had also been cooked