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shiver.
    “Well, this is just perfect,” said Penelope.
    “And whose fault is that?” asked Maud.
    “Alright,” said Penelope. “There’s no need to go on about it.”
    She took her hat off and laid it on its side to make a pillow. Within a few seconds, she was snoring loudly.
    Maud took Quentin out of her pocket and tried to dry him with a tissue. His fur was so wet, it had clumped into spiky tufts, and he was shivering from the cold.
    “You poor thing,” said Maud. “I’m afraid we’re not going to get much warmer tonight.” The roof of the caravan was curved, and it was impossible to find a
comfortable spot, but Maud stretched out as best she could. She looked up at the bright moon. The caravan was stuck in the bog, her tent was under the mud, and the Wilds were dashing around on all
fours. And this was just the first night.
    So far, the holiday was off to a horrible start.
     

M aud hurtled through the woods, crunching black leaves and scrabbling over dead branches. The Beast was closing in on her, its foul breath warm on
her neck. She heard its razor-sharp claws swish through the air, terrifyingly close to her head.
    Maud stumbled. She tried to find her footing again, but it was too late. She was falling, easy prey for the vicious monster. She looked back just in time to see it open its slimy jaws.
    “Wakey-wakey,” it said, in a strangely sweet voice. “Come on, sleepyhead.”
    It sounded an awful lot like her dad. Maud opened her eyes.
    Mr Montague was leaning out of the window of the caravan, shielding his eyes from the bright morning sun. “Must have been quite the storm last night, eh?”
    “Don’t tell me you slept through it,” said Maud.
    “I did get a sort of slipping sensation at one point,” said Mr Montague. “But I assumed it was indigestion.”
    Milly stuck her head out of the window. She had bags under her eyes, and her hair was coated with pressed flowers.
    “Well, I hardly slept at all,” she said, scowling. “There was a horrid, howling noise all night. And I dreamt huge swamp-slugs were crawling over the roof. It turns out I
wasn’t far wrong.”
    Penelope sat up and rubbed her eyes. She pressed the dent out of her hat and put it on.
    “What a wonderful night,” she said. “We must do it again sometime!”
    Mr Montague craned his head round to look up towards the campsite.
    “Well done for tying us to the tree,” he said. “Very resourceful, dear.” He clambered out of the window and leapt down into the mud, shouting out, “Geronimo!”
Then he squelched his way up to dry ground and grasped hold of the rope. “I hope you’re all ready for tug o’ war!”
    Maud scrambled down from the roof and lined up behind him. Penelope climbed down too, but wandered straight past.
    Mrs Montague followed Mr Montague through the window. “Out you get, Milly,” she shouted. “We’ve all got to muck in.”
    Milly shook her head. “I’m not going near any muck. The only time I’m going to set foot out of here is when we’re safely home.”
    “Oh, never mind,” said Mr Montague. “She doesn’t weigh much, anyhow.”
    Mrs Montague took her place behind Maud and gripped the rope.
    “On the count of three, everybody pull!” said Mr Montague. “One … two … three … heave!” Maud tugged the rope with all her strength. The caravan
budged an inch and then slurped back into the sticky mud.
    “Let’s try again,” said Mr Montague, wiping a bead of sweat from his forehead. “One … two … three … heave!”
    This time the caravan crept up a couple of inches before sliding down again.
    “Okay,” said Mr Montague, panting hard. “Nearly there.”
    Mr Wild padded over to them, looking fresh as a daisy. “Morning, friends. Need a hand?”
    “Sure, dude,” said Mr Montague. “That would be awesome.”
    Mr Wild raised a bushy eyebrow and grabbed the rope.
    “One … two … three … heave!” shouted Mr Montague.
    Mr Wild casually pulled the rope with one