“RUN!” shouted Peter.
For suddenly, seven black cats came pouring through the garden gate.
They did not hiss.
They did not scratch.
They simply ran.
And wherever the youngsters turned, there seemed to be another cat waiting.
Peter dashed towards the bottom of the street, only to find two cats sitting directly in his path.
Michael attempted to escape through a narrow alley, but an enormous black tomcat appeared on a wall above him.
Billy stumbled over his own shoelaces and landed in a pile of wet leaves.
“Oh, crumbs!” he cried.
Susan grabbed Margaret’s hand.
“Come on! This way!”
But the girls had barely reached the next corner when a cat leapt neatly onto a dustbin and gave a tremendous yowl.
MEEEOOOW!
The sound echoed between the old buildings.
And then came something even more alarming.
A voice.
“Peter Collins!”
The youngsters froze.
“Michael Harris! William Watkins! Susan and Margaret Miller!”
Mrs Thistlewick stood at the far end of the street.
“Come here this instant!”
“How does she know our names?” whispered Michael.
“She’s a witch!” gasped Billy.
“Don’t be silly!” snapped Susan.
But even Susan was beginning to have doubts.
Peter made one last attempt to escape.
He turned into a narrow passageway, only to discover that it led into a small enclosed yard.
The others followed him.
There was no way out.
Seven black cats appeared along the surrounding walls.
And Mrs Thistlewick came walking slowly towards them.
Tap.
Tap.
Tap.
Her wooden stick struck the cobbles.
“Well,” she said, looking at the five miserable youngsters. “I do believe we’ve caught ourselves a little collection of Halloween hooligans.”
“We weren’t doing anything!” protested Peter.
Mrs Thistlewick looked at him.
“Really?”
“Well, nothing much.”
“Flour on my doorstep?”
Peter said nothing.
“Leaves through my letterbox?”
Billy stared at his shoes.
“And somebody nearly pulled my gate off its hinges.”
Michael turned scarlet.
Mrs Thistlewick folded her arms.
“I think,” she announced, “that you had all better come inside.”
