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doing anything.’
‘He’s useless,’ said the mouse.
‘He’s in love,’ said Gaspode. ‘It’s very tricky.’
‘Yeah, I thinks he’s a idiot.’
‘That’s all part of it,’ added Gaspode. ‘They call it romance.’
Cat shrugged. ‘Give me a boot every time. You know where you stand, with a boot.’

The glittering spirit of Holy Wood streamed out into the world, no longer a trickle but a flood. It bubbled in the veins of people, even of animals. When the handlemen turned their handles, it was there. When the carpenters hammered their nails, they hammered for Holy Wood. Holy Wood was in Borgle’s stew, in the sand, in the air. It was growing. know how it ish,’ said the cat sympathetically. ‘People throwing old boots and things at you.’ ‘Old boots?’ said the mouse. ‘That’sh what’s always happened to me when I’ve been in love,’ said cat wistfully. ‘It’s different for humans,’ said Gaspode uncertainly. ‘You don’t get so many boots and buckets of water thrown at you. It’s more, er, flowers and arguing and stuff.’ The animals looked glumly at one another. ‘I’ve watched ‘em,’ said Squeak. ‘She