Joseph recognised that voice. O-oh, this is not good! Fear like an Antarctic blast, paralysed him. He perched on the bench. The rustling was the other side of the outhouse door—an unlocked door—the Wends didn’t believe in loo locks—apparently.
The rooster crowed yet again.
‘Oh, go on, you! It’s the middle of the night,’ Amie said. She returned to her bed and crept under the quilt.
The rooster continued to herald the dawn. Cockle-doodle-doo! Cockle-doodle-doo. Amie lay awake. Cockle-doodle-doo. Cockle-doodle-screech! Squawk! Squawk! Screech!