Doctor Muskrat didn’t give the twitch of a whisker about that. He just said: “Come on, Nibble. Now we’ll make them tell us what happened to Tad Coon.”
Thump-thump! went Doctor Muskrat’s paddle-paw on the hollow stump where Great-Grandfather Fieldmouse lives with all his children and his grandchildren and his great-grandchildren, and their children as well, until the stump is fairly swarming with them all.
Blam-blam! went Nibble Rabbit’s furry feet.
At least seven mouse mothers popped their heads out and hissed, “Hssh! You’ll wake the babies.” One of them added importantly, as though it were news, “There’s sickness in the house.”
Nibble Rabbit snickered. But Doctor Muskrat just growled: “I must speak with Great-Grandfather Fieldmouse!” And in another minute his crinkly old mousy ears showed in the doorway.
“Who’s there? What do you want?” he quavered. He was still feeling pretty shaky, I can tell you.
“It’s me,” said Doctor Muskrat. “I want to know what happened to Tad Coon.”
“I—I don’t know,” said Great-Grandfather Fieldmouse, and he coughed uncomfortably because he did know. So he was telling a lie when he said he didn’t—and he knew that, too.
So did Doctor Muskrat. “Hmp!” he snorted, “that isn’t what you said at the moonlight meeting. You asked Stripes Skunk if he dared to risk the same fate at your paws as happened to Tad Coon. What was it?”
“I won’t tell,” sniffed the old mouse. “A fieldmouse never changes. I said I wouldn’t tell you and I won’t. So there!”