His
paper of half-finished verses slipped from his knee, his head fell
back, his mouth opened, and he wandered by the verdant banks of
dream-rivers. Then a coal slipped, the fire crackled and sent up a
spurt of flame, and he woke with a start. Remembering what he had
been engaged upon, he reached down to the floor for his verses, pored
over them for a minute, and then looked round for the Mole to ask him
if he knew a good rhyme for something or other.
But the Mole was not there.
He listened for a time. The house seemed very quiet.
Then he called 'Moly!' several times, and, receiving no answer, got up
and went out into the hall.
The Mole's cap was missing from its accustomed peg. His goloshes,
which always lay by the umbrella-stand, were also gone.
The Rat left the house, and carefully examined the muddy surface of
the ground outside, hoping to find the Mole's tracks. There they
were, sure enough. The goloshes were new, just bought for the winter,
and the pimples on their soles were fresh and sharp. He could see the
imprints of them in the mud, running along straight and purposeful,
leading direct to the Wild Wood.
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