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gardens in the competition.
    Petty Potts suddenly arrived behind Josh and Danny. They smiled at her, glumly. How they wished Josh’s photo of Mrs. Sharpe and Tarquin with the hedge birds had come out. They’d spent all morning grumbling about it, sitting by the shed in the backyard. Even when Scratch and Sniff had shown up (they lived under the shed) and sat on their shoulders for a while, they felt sad. The rats shook their furry little heads when Josh told them what had happened. “I can’t stand to think of that stuck-up Mrs. Sharpe winning the prize!” said Danny. Scratch and Sniff squeaked at each other. Then they vanished back under the shed just as Mom came down the garden to tell Josh and Danny the judging was starting.
    Now the crowd gathered at Mrs. Sharpe’s garden while the judge walked around it.
    â€œYou know, I don’t think you really wanted to get the police involved, anyway,” Petty muttered. “After all, they would have wondered how you came to be inside the Sharpes’ house. It’s for the best.”
    Mrs. Sharpe’s garden was very neat with carefully arranged plants and flowers, a perfect lawn, and a water feature with a little fountain. Mrs. Sharpe stood at her gate, wearing a wide-brimmed hat, waving white-gloved hands, and nodding at everyone, as if she were the queen.
    â€œVery good, as usual, Mrs. Sharpe,” beamed the judge, after looking around for a few minutes. “Always one of our star gardens. Quite immaculate.”
    â€œWell, you know I cannot bear untidiness or unpleasantness in a garden,” simpered Mrs. Sharpe. “For me, there has to be perfect order. Nothing less.” Tarquin stood behind her. He wore a neat navy-blue suit and a smug smile.
    â€œWell,” said the judge. “As this is our last garden, I think I can now announce the winner.”
    An expectant hush fell upon the crowd, broken only by the buzzing of a few flies. Then a few more flies. And a bit more buzzing.

    The judge fanned his face. “Gosh! Your garden is a haven for insect life, Mrs. Sharpe.”
    â€œWell—butterflies and bees, of course,” trilled Mrs. Sharpe. She swiped something off her chin.
    â€œNo—bluebottles and cluster flies,” said Josh.
    He grinned. There were a lot of flies. Really quite a swarm in fact. Someone gave a little scream. There were now clouds of flies all over Mrs. Sharpe’s garden. They settled on her neat borders and danced around her little fountain.
    â€œThey’re attracted to garbage, old meat, dog poo. That kind of stuff,” Josh cheerily informed the crowd.
    â€œI don’t have garbage or old meat or dog poo in my garden!” exclaimed Mrs. Sharpe.
    â€œWell, you must have. You’ve certainly got vermin!” pointed out Petty. And there—running around the fountain—were Scratch and Sniff.
    They raced up and down the lawn, squeaking, and swirling cyclones of flies followed them.
    As the crowd turned panicky, Josh and Danny were doubled up laughing. Scratch and Sniff had obviously decided to help out, after hearing Josh and Danny’s bad news earlier.
    â€œOf course!” Josh giggled, wildly, to Danny and Petty. “Scratch told us he could get flies to swarm for him. Now he’s proved it!”
    Everyone was now edging quickly away from Mrs. Sharpe’s garden.

    â€œWait! Wait!” she squealed after them, swatting flies off her clothes in crazy swoops. “I’ve made tea! I’ve made cakes! Scones and jam . . . to celebrate my victory . . . ”
    â€œNothing to celebrate this year, Mrs. Sharpe,” called back the judge, scribbling on his clipboard as he ran down the road. “You came in ninth! Better get an exterminator in for those rats!”
    â€œBut I don’t have rats! I don’t!” sobbed Mrs. Sharpe, twitching and dancing while Tarquin slapped his face repeatedly.

    Josh stayed long enough to take a