"I won't let it catch you, Susan!" Peter cried. "If it catches me run for help!"
With that, Peter leapt back and stared wildly.
The doorway was a square of inky blackness, and there was nothing to be seen beyond it. If lights could kill lights had killed—or convulsed the creature with such instant, overwhelming terror that it had vanished without a sound.
It had vanished so completely that it was remarkably easy for Peter to persuade himself that he had acted bravely from the instant of his awakening.
Lest censure bear too heavily upon him, it should be remembered that even a lion makes haste to hide itself in the impenetrable depths of the forest when alarmed by an unfamiliar scent, or a shadow not quite to its liking.
"Now Mr. Caxton will have to believe me, Susan," Peter said. "Did you see its claws? Two in front and two in back."
Susan said nothing. She stood staring into the darkness at Peter's side, and although there was nothing to be seen there was a great deal to be heard.
Somewhere in the darkness Mr. Caxton was shouting. That did not surprise Susan. Mr. Caxton had no control at all over his anger. The instant he became annoyed he raised his voice, and when he became really furious his shouts could be deafening.
There is a coarseness of speech which strains the credulity of children. Their innocence is spared because adult anger is quite unlike the brief, quickly-aroused belligerency which results in blackened eyes, and bruised knuckles.
Listening, Peter and Susan both knew that Mr. Caxton's anger was a thing peculiar to himself. It could only have been brought forth piping hot from the kindling of great, smouldering fires deep inside him.