Instead, the animal almost brushed him as it dashed
past, his face set and hard, his eyes staring. 'Get out of this, you
fool, get out!' the Mole heard him mutter as he swung round a stump
and disappeared down a friendly burrow.
The pattering increased till it sounded like sudden hail on the dry
leaf-carpet spread around him. The whole wood seemed running now,
running hard, hunting, chasing, closing in round something or--
somebody? In panic, he began to run too, aimlessly, he knew not
whither. He ran up against things, he fell over things and into
things, he darted under things and dodged round things. At last he
took refuge in the deep dark hollow of an old beech tree, which
offered shelter, concealment--perhaps even safety, but who could tell?
Anyhow, he was too tired to run any further, and could only snuggle
down into the dry leaves which had drifted into the hollow and hope he
was safe for a time. And as he lay there panting and trembling, and
listened to the whistlings and the patterings outside, he knew it at
last, in all its fullness, that dread thing which other little
dwellers in field and hedgerow had encountered here, and known as
their darkest moment--that thing which the Rat had vainly tried to
shield him from--the Terror of the Wild Wood!
Meantime the Rat, warm and comfortable, dozed by his fireside.
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