Don’t worry, that’s not a noose hanging from the tree, its just where I stash my lead when I’m out marauding. Himself was paid to keep his mouth shut but he welched on the deal, said there wasn’t enough Winalot in the world to ensure his silence.
Now the secret’s out, I might as well tell you the truth. By day I am indeed Captain Midnight, super-dog, protector of the weak, and scourge of the wicked. But by night, when the moon hides behind the clouds, I am “Mad Dog” Midnight, the notorious footpad and I frequent the country lanes of Gloucestershire and Dorset with my partner in crime “Sixteen String” Jack Russell, on the lookout for easy pickings.
It’s a dangerous business holding up coaches these days, as they are mostly huge National Express charabancs that whizz along at enormous speed and don’t stop for anyone or anything. But if you keep your nose to the ground where they’ve been, you can sometimes find discarded booty chucked out of the window. Half a sausage roll, a fish paste sandwich, that sort of thing.
Jack says it’s much better to wait for punters on foot. He says if you’re smart you can hide in the hedge until you spot them on the way home from the Pizza Place or the Chippie. Wait until they go past then leap out barking loudly. If they don’t drop their valuables and run for it you can nip at their heels until they do.
Unless they’re ladies of course! We gentlemen of the road have our standards. No, the trick to robbing the ladies is to roll over on your back and whimper. Then they’ll tickle your belly and give you their leftovers and think themselves lucky to be able to tell their fancy friends of the time they came face to face with “Sixteen String” and “Mad Dog” and lived to tell the tale.
Your biscuits or your life?
It’s up to you.