Basil and the Lost Colony (Volume 5) (The Great Mouse Detective, Band 2) - Hardcover

Über die Autorinnen und Autoren

Eve Titus (1905–2002) wrote many books for children during her long career, including the Basil of Baker Street books and the Anatole series.

Paul Galdone (1907–1986) illustrated hundreds of children’s books, including the Basil of Baker Street series and the Anatole books, which received Caldecott Honors. He was posthumously awarded the 1996 Kerlan Award for his contribution to children’s literature.

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Basil and the Lost Colony

1

AMBUSHED!

AN ARROW WITH STRANGE MARKINGS was the clue that sent Basil of Baker Street scurrying off to Switzerland in search of the Lost Colony.

Some mice claim that the Sealed Mousehole Mystery best displayed Basil’s genius. I beg to differ. The Case of the Lost Colony was clearly the most extraordinary exploit of this extraordinary detective.

Did it not take him to another land, to lead an expedition of thirty-two mice up a towering mountain? Was he not pursued by Professor Ratigan, sinister ruler of the mouse underworld?

And what of the shaggy mouse? Were it not for Basil, the giant creature might never have—

But I fear I am scampering ahead of my tale. . . .

It all began in London, England, on a chill April afternoon in the year 1891.

I, Dr. David Q. Dawson, sat alone before the fire. The cozy flat Basil and I shared was in the model mouse town of Holmestead, erected on a high shelf in the cellar of Baker Street, Number 221B.

Abovestairs lived Basil’s hero, Mr. Sherlock Holmes. There my friend learned all his detective lore by listening as the great man discussed his cases with his associate, Dr. Watson. It was not surprising, therefore, that Basil came to be called the Sherlock Holmes of the Mouse World.

This afternoon he prowled the streets of London, tracking Professor Ratigan’s gang. He had jailed all but the Professor and two gangsters. Suddenly I heard unsteady steps on the stair—could it be Basil? I flung the door wide—it was he!

Face scratched, clothes torn, he staggered inside.

“Ambushed! Ambushed by a starving Siamese!”

His whiskers twitched. “I turned a corner on Stilton Square, and two blue eyes met mine. A voice said, ‘Basil of Baker Street, I presume?’ I nodded.

“?‘I’ve been expecting you,’ said the Siamese softly.

“Then it sprang, but I sprang faster, down through a crack in the pavement. Back and forth above me moved the kitten’s claw. ‘This cat-and-mouse game is not for you,’ I told myself. I raced along underground and climbed up on James Street.

“But the Siamese spied me! My dear doctor, have you ever seen a kitten coming toward you at a full gallop? It’s a sight I would sooner forget!”



He sighed, and sank back in his chair.

“End the suspense, Basil—how did you escape?”

He winked. “I didn’t. The cat ate me.”

“Stop joking, Basil. What did you do?”

“Dawson, I am always prepared for emergencies. In my pocket was a packet of catnip. I tore it open, tossed it at the monster, and fled. Clearly, the cat preferred catnip to mousenip, else I should not be here to tell the tale.”

His eyes narrowed to slits. “That ambush was arranged! In all England, there is only one mouse who can bargain safely with cats, only one mouse who owns a suit of armor—the villainous Professor Ratigan!”

“Armor stolen from the British Mousmopolitan Museum,” said I. “It’s a pity that this brilliant Ratcliffe graduate chose a life of crime. You’ve been trailing him and his gang for weeks, and you’re exhausted. Let the police finish the job. The International Society of Mouse Mountaineers meets in Switzerland next week. Climbing an alp or two will make a new mouse of you!”

“No doubt, Dawson, but the old one will have to do. I’ll not leave London until Ratigan is behind bars. Meanwhile, I shall seek relaxation. Mr. Holmes relaxes with indoor pistol practice, but I prefer the bow and arrow.”

The target was an oil painting of a horned owl. A crack shot, Basil was also a walking encyclopedia on the history of archery.

Ping! An arrow whizzed past my right ear. Ping!



Another shot past my left. Ping! Ping!



The arrows flashed by, faster and faster. I began to feel as though I might turn out to be the target, instead of the owl. I feared to remain in my chair, and I feared to rise from it.

“Really, Basil! Why don’t you practice outdoors, as William Tell did? Spare me! Next you’ll place a grape upon my helpless head, and aim at it!”

“Splendid idea, Dawson, but it must wait.”

He had put down his bow, and was peering intently out of the front window.

“A client approaches,” he said. “Seems like a likely looking fellow. However, unless the case concerns the Professor, I shall decline it. Nothing must halt me in my pursuit of the ruthless Ratigan!”