Prickly Defence This play was interrupted recently by real drama.
The dog was on ahead. I could heat him snuffling, nose forward through the grass, some fifty yards down the lane. The night was calm after wind, and my ears were accordingly more alert to the small sounds that come with the still- ness of the air. Somewhere a night-jar was whirring. Crickets chirruped everywhere. A distant cow raised her voice in a batn, the confinement making the small bellow magnify into a sound like the mournful horn of Roland at Roncevalles Suddenly this nocturne was broken by a con- vulsive start from the Corgi. I heard his feet tauten as he pulled himself up sharp. He growled, moaned, then broke into an angry sotto-bark that was strangled as he leaped into the ground and seized something. The effort was followed by a cry of pain and rage. This electrified the old cat, who had been lying playfully in wait, ready to make his pretence of pouncing. He too stiffened, his pink mouth opened and shut several times with a quivering motion, and he uttered a protesting little cry, lash- ing his tail about with a scything motion. Then, with his age shaken off like an evil dream, he was down the lane after the dog. By the time I reached the spot, there were .both dog and cat tackling a huge hedge- hog. He had switched himself round to face them, and I was just in time to see his head before he rolled himself up for the defence. But the dog was not abashed by this. He leaped again, howling with pain as he grabbed the prickly ball with wide-open mouth, and managed to drag the stranger down into the open road. Here the cat made an effort to help. He started handling the ball, but as quickly drew back as the prickles stung his pads. He spat, arched his back, and turned to the Corgi as though to blame him for this bad practical joke. Feeling ran high, and I had to intervene, urging my party along down the hill, and looking back from time to time at the ball which still remained cautiously in the gutter.
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