Meantime Van was alone and free to follow his own sweet will. Down Silver Street he went, stopping to bark defiance at the two collies. Then he turned to the left, and went towards Toby Hollow. Many times had he been there in the daylight, but never before at night. It was a delicious place, full of whispering mysteries of leaf and insect. Little night noises and voices of the underworld babbled around him, the trees bent above him, like friendly giants, and the Dark was soft and warm. There were depths to explore that never existed in the daytime. Here a squirrel swished past almost within reach of Van’s nose; now a woodchuck crossed his path, and he tracked it to its hole and waited there, long and vainly, for its reappearance. He would remember that woodchuck, sometime, when Thatcher was there to help him.
The night had long ago pulled down its velvety curtains. Far away a little rooster, who was just learning to crow, and was anxious to get in extra practice, turned up his cracked little voice: “Ruckety, ruckety r-r-r-r-r-r!” It made a stir through all the chicken yards along the road; Van barked a reply. If that meant morning he must hurry on with his night-prowling. Dew-wet but happy he turned back. The game in Toby Hollow was too shy. He would go where he knew his ground better.
Pig-Pen Alley again. Betsy was not here to bother him now. He would make a round by himself. Piff! there went a rat right across the alley in front of him. Like a shot from a cannon went Van through the palings and was hot on its track. Down the alley they skimmed along. If the rat could only hold out to that corner it would be safe. It jumped for a hole, but Van headed it off, and it turned into the darkness of the great Cow Barn. There was no chance to turn or double—Van was too near.
All was quiet there, for it was late in the night, and good cows sleep when it is dark. Mr. Rat scuttled along—the breath of the dog was on him;—oh, for a place to hide!
At the far end, beyond the long rows of gently breathing cattle, was an enclosed stall, built of cement, and strewn with clean straw. Just now it was occupied by a mother cow and her baby calf, only a day old. A sack of corn leaned against the stall, and with a leap the rat was behind it. Van tipped the bag over, but at that instant the rat had found a knot-hole in the wooden door, and was on the inside. Van could not go through a knot-hole.
But there were other ways, and he did not intend to give up the chase—not yet! The stall was only four feet high, and there was the sack of corn. On this Van scrambled. With a leap he caught the edge of the stall with his paws; a spring and a wriggle, and he, too, was inside.
He landed on something warm and soft; a something around which the rat ran, escaping again by the hole where he had entered; a something which gave an astonished “moo!” at the disturbance of her rest; a something which rose out of the pitch darkness like a black mountain. Mother Cow would see what was destroying the slumbers of her baby and herself. Huge and awful she was, for a mother cow with her little one is no child’s toy. Had it been daylight she could easily have made an end of poor Van, with her wicked horns.
As it was she stood there, blinking and grumbling, with a threat in her throat, and a warning also to the wabbly baby, that crowded in behind her great bulk, where it would be safe from danger.
Mother Cow was quite enough for Van, however. She stood there, fearsome and menacing, and Van faced her—the biggest problem he had ever tackled. She looked formidable indeed; he certainly could not get her by the back of the neck and shake her. He decided not to rush the lady, but to fight shy, and for time. He must be brave, look her down, and not flinch.
He made no sound. Somehow the valiant little figure, standing his ground before her, made Brindle hesitate about attacking in her turn.