Thus the carousal continued hour after hour, and that old Gunwagner cellar was for the time a diminutive bedlam. Our young hero, nevertheless, slept on and on, unconscious of this racket.
After a while the rats grew bolder. Their curiosity became greater, and then they began to investigate more carefully the state of things within the prison cell, and at length their attention was turned to the quiet sleeper.
Well bred rats are always cautious, and therefore are somewhat respectful, but the drove at old Gunwagner’s did not show this desirable trait. In fact they were not unlike the old fence himself—daring, avaricious and discourteous. No better proof of this could be instanced than their disreputable treatment of our young hero.
Rats, as a rule, show a special fondness for leather. Undoubtedly it is palatable to them. But this fact would not justify them in the attempt they made to appropriate to themselves Herbert’s boots. The propriety of such an act was most questionable, and no well mannered rats would have allowed themselves to become a party to such a raid. But as a matter of fact, and as Herbert learned to his sorrow, there were no well mannered rats at old Gunwagner’s—none but a thieving, quarrelsome lot.
After a council of war had been held, and a great amount of reconnoitering had been done, it was decided that these rural boots could not be removed from their rightful owner in their present shape; therefore they fell vigorously to work to reduce them to a more movable condition.
When Herbert fell asleep, he was sitting on a bench with his feet upon the floor. He was still in this position, with his head resting in his hand, and his elbow supported by the side of his prison cell, when the rats made war on his boots. They gnawed and chipped away at them at a lively rate, and in a little time the uppers were entirely destroyed. The cotton linings, to be sure, were still intact, as these they did not trouble. Evidently cotton cloth was not a tempting diet for them.
Up to this time Herbert had not moved a muscle since he fell asleep, but now a troubled dream or something else, I know not what, disturbed him. Possibly it was the continued gnawing on his already shattered boots. It might, however, have been the fear of these dreadful rats, or the repulsive image of old Gunwagner, that haunted him and broke the soundness of his slumbers.
Presently he opened his eyes, drowsily, and his first half waking impression was the peculiar sensation at his feet. In another instant a full realization of the cause of this feeling darted into his mind, and with a pitiful cry of terror he bounded into the air like a frightened deer. And to add to the horror of his situation, in descending his right foot came down squarely upon one of the rats, which emitted a strange cry, a sort of squeal, that sent a thrill throughout every nerve of our hero’s body.
A second leap brought him standing upon the bench upon which he had been sitting.
If ever a boy had good reason to be frightened, it was Herbert Randolph. His situation was one to drive men mad—in that dark, damp cellar, thus surrounded and beset by this countless horde of rats. The cold perspiration stood out upon him, and he trembled with an uncontrollable fear.