AFTER DARK. 199 
and in the end he passed out slowly from the 
warm rickyard into the bare, open field, and 
into the night. 
For a moment he paused in the gateway 
to pivot on his haunches, and glare savagely 
at the inky blots of shadow; then he faded 
away. 
He was a ‘rogue’ rat, who had been driven 
out by his kind for such trifling little offences 
as murder, baby-rat slaughter, and cannibalism. 
Very far away a church clock in some 
country town struck midnight, and a fox 
barked once—a guttural, mournful yap—from 
somewhere out among the fields. But the 
old rat took no notice. He kept straight on 
to the nearest hedge, and proceeded to lick 
his wounds. 
Half-an-hour later we find the old, scarred 
ruffian moving slowly down along the hedge. 
He was very alert; every stride or two he 
paused to listen and look round. And that, 
I suppose, was why the movement of some 
bird, asleep in the branches overhead, attracted 
him. 
He stopped, and he climbed upwards. There 
was a pause, then a squawk, a flutter, a silence. 
After a bit the old rat came down again, and 
hopped away as if nothing had happened. But 
something had happened, for if you had looked 
