Limelit Drama Another sign that the curtain is about to
rise on the long year's play greeted me while I was driving into Frant village to dinner. The night was cold and starry, with patches of mist, and I was crawling cautiously. I noticed (as when driving one notices every detail in a generalised way) an open iron paling beside the road. Suddenly my attention focused on a movement. Something was struggling to get through that paling. I slowed down, still far enough away for the beam of my headlights to include the drama. A huge badger was heaving and wriggling, trying to push his backside between the obstinate palings, while he faced a crouching tabby-cat whose tail lashed to and fro with ominous precision. . The cat's cyrs flashed in the beam for an instant as he glanced at the lamps of my car to see what intrusion this might be upon his quest. Then his gaze returned to the badger ; patient, malevolent. Mr. Brock was larger than a terrier, and massive, too, but he was mortally afraid. He squirmed and wriggled abjectly, and his face, with its clownlike visor of white, expressed the utmost worry and petulance.
I stopped and watched for a while, hoping to see the determination of this duel. But nothing was furthered. The tiger crouched, and the pained victim writhed. I was already late for dinner, after my misty drive, and I dared not linger. The beam of my headlamps moved on, and the encounter by the iron palings passed into darkness, taking its place among the unknown events of night.
Previous page
