“But this one is—”
“Oh, go on!” Browny interrupted. “I ordered you off my place once. Must I do it again?”
Bumper made no reply. He had done all that he could in warning Browny of the danger. Now the risk was his. He wouldn’t put himself out again to help a Muskrat.
But once again that little conscience of his bothered him. After he had hopped away in the woods, he stopped to nibble at some young buds. “What if Browny was caught in the steel trap?” he asked himself. “It would be terrible! He would either starve to death or be killed. Oh, I wish he’d listened to me!”
But he kept right on eating. It wasn’t any of his concern. But curiously enough he ate toward the marsh, and not away from it, until once more he stood on the very edge. He seemed surprised at this, but after all he knew all the time he was eating toward it.
He looked around. Browny was no longer in sight. Perhaps he had gone into the water again. Bumper sat there and listened, with his neck stretched up to look over the tall grasses.
Then suddenly a muffled squeaking reached his ears. Where did it come from, and who was making it? He looked all around him in vain, and then he thought of the trap.
He hopped through the reeds and rushes until he came to it. Yes, there was the long chain, and the stake, but there was something at the other end, for the chain kept twitching and pulling. And out of Browny’s hole came a faint, muffled cry.
“Help! Help! Oh, won’t somebody help me?”
“What’s the matter, Browny?” Bumper asked.