CHAPTER XIII

WHERE, OH WHERE, IS TAD COON?

You couldn’t very well blame Stripes for being delighted when he found out what they had done. They’d made themselves most awfully sick and sorry. And Stripes was one of the Things-from-under-the-Earth in the first place, you know; he couldn’t get so good and kind clear through to the bottom of him that he’d forgive the mean little things—not all of a sudden. The only reason he didn’t try to kill any of them right then was because he was afraid they’d disagree with him.

But Nibble Rabbit was sorry, so sorry. The mice had been kind to him—except old Great-Grandfather Fieldmouse who was pretty rude the day they marched into Nibble’s hole after woodchuck fur for a charm against owls. He couldn’t bear to hear them squeal and moan. He was just wishing with all his heart that his ears weren’t so very long when one of them called out from the shadow of a wide burdock-leaf: “Rabbit, oh, Rabbit! Bend down this leaf so I can get just a drop of dew on my tongue. I’m dying.”

Of course he hopped to help her. Yes, it was a lady mouse who had called. And wasn’t she s’prised to find he was the very same little bunny she had guided through the scary dark tunnels under the haystack! That was the time Ouphe the Rat was chasing him. And wasn’t he still more s’prised to find she was the same mouse. He’d been wanting to pay her back all that time. Now he had a chance.

“Drink?” said Nibble. “I’ll give you a drink. Hold up your toes and don’t wiggle.” With that he picked her up very gently by the loose fur on her collar and carried her down to Doctor Muskrat’s Pond. And maybe you think he didn’t thump and pound with his furry feet until the sleepy old doctor came out to prescribe for her.

“Water is right,” said the doctor. “Then she must eat all the sour wood-sorrel she can hold. There’s lots of it all about the Woods and Fields but I don’t suppose half of these silly mice know enough to use it.”

You know how kind Doctor Muskrat really is; he only pretends to be grumpy. Well, instead of crawling back into his nice warm bed he went flouncing around in the moonlight calling: “Water and wood-sorrel, you foolish mice, water and wood-sorrel!”

And this time you better believe they listened to him. It was wonderful how soon the squealing stopped after the crunching began—the crunching of mouse-teeth on wood-sorrel. And before very long they were scuttling back to their homes, whisking their tails behind them. But not a one except the lady mouse, who was Nibble Rabbit’s friend, ever thought to say “Thank you.” That’s mouse manners for you!

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!”

“Dried Stalks and Wormy Acorns!” exploded the doctor. “You won’t, won’t you? Well, you’re a long way from being popular with all the mice who’ve been sick to-night over this foolish way you made war on Stripes Skunk. How will they fancy having the Woods and Fields make war on the mice? Eh? And we’ll do it, too!” Doctor Muskrat showed his long teeth, but he wasn’t smiling.

“Don’t do that,” whimpered the stubborn old fellow. “It won’t do any good. Tad Coon chased a couple of mice into a corn-crib. While he was scuffing around to catch one a man ran out and closed the door on him. The other mouse got away and told us about it the night of the meeting. That’s truly all I know.”

“When? Where? What corn-crib?” asked the doctor. “Where’s that mouse?”

“I know you won’t believe me,” sniffled old Grandfather Fieldmouse, bursting into tears, “but he really and truly was eaten up by the little owls.”

At this awful news Nibble Rabbit’s face grew ’most as long as his loppy long ears. And Doctor Muskrat’s whiskers drooped. Poor, poor Tad. His tricks had got him into trouble once too often. But they’d forgotten about Tad Coon’s luck. That’s never much farther behind him than the end of his bushy tail. So don’t you lose any sleep over what happened to Tad till I get the story of all his adventures, in prison and out again, into a book fat enough to hold them.

THE END