The poor goose is splatted. An immense tidal wave swamps the field. Pebble and Trout are shaken around like peas in a demented cement-mixer but somehow manage to cling on to Weed whose roots are firmly embedded in mud.
''You silly sod,'' Weed tells Vanilla as Yo-yo floats away under the bridge. ''You won't catch him now.''
Mister Vanilla sits in what's left of the river, half the Foss soaking into his pants. Curses, he mutters. Foiled again. But not for long. Time for Plan E.