146 GRIMALKIN THE CAT 
hate him ; and, indeed, he was recognisable enough 
a huge grey tabby, strong enough to pull down a 
grown rabbit, and cunning enough to know a keeper 
with a gun from a prowling poacher like himself. 
There are some nights on which, although they 
may seem eminently favourable to a mere human 
hunter, the Fur Folk do not stir abroad. On the 
other hand, there are others on which they come 
forth in their scores the hunters and the hunted 
and such nights are known in the woods as hunters' 
nights. It was such a night in Knockdane. The 
air was warm, but a little breeze was stirring, and 
one by one the leaves floated down on their fallen 
fellows with a rustle like a faint footstep. Big white 
moths whirred round the ivy blossoms and bats 
wheeled through the clearings. The moon rose 
early, and by the time the afterglow had faded 
she was high in the sky, casting long shadows across 
the Hollow Field. 
Grimalkin trotted quickly through the wood 
with the easy swing and depressed tail of a cat 
who knows where he is going. Every now and then 
he paused with uplifted paw as some twig fell with 
a crackle to the ground, or a patter of leaves told of 
game afoot, and the green light flickered in his eyes. 
The fence which separates the Hollow Field from 
the wood had run to waste for many years, before 
