It was council of war time. The nomes had very long, very bad memories of Big and the things he called fireworks.
“It isn’t even November,” Granny snapped.
“Neither it is, but I doesn’t see what us can do.”
“There must be summat.”
The brangling went on for a while, but to no avail. Even the foreman of moles couldn’t see her way clear to do anything.
Night fell, and the house was full to the brim with drunken biggers. Big strode out into the darkness clutching something to his fat belly. He plopped it into the ground and ran…