Did a flock of wild-duck come over from the sea with whistling wings, he did not so much get under the over-hanging grass as be there.  Did a “gaggle” of wild-geese go by high over, clamoring like hounds, he went out like a blown candle.  Did a party of teal—­for it was the magic hour of “flight,” when all wildfowl shift their quarters to feed, or not to feed—­fairly hissing with speed, like masterless bullets, dash over, he—­well, he was not before you could realize that he had moved.

Then up and flew round them a shape, and the name of that shape was death.  It might have been a gull with hawk-like form.  It might have been a hawk in gull-like light-gray uniform.  And it might have been an owl with gull-like dress and hawk-like lines.  Whatever it was, it was clipper-built, swift, and in fighting trim.  As a matter of fact, it was neither gull nor hawk nor owl, but a harrier, a hen-harrier—­that’s its name, not its sex, for it was a cock—­and the same is a half-way house, so to speak, between hawk and owl.  Possibly because they are crepuscular, harriers may be thought more rare than they are.  This one was “crepusculing,” and—­the black rat did not like it.  They had met before, and Mr. Ratus had gained a lively dislike for this hawk-owl combination, greater than his respect—­which itself was not small—­for owl or hawk.

Seeing nowhere to go, and nothing to hide in when he got there, our Mr. Ratus shifted from one spot to the other when the harrier made his cat-like pounce—­yes, he was something cat-like, too—­and had the pleasure of seeing the harrier’s uninviting talons grab a clawful of grass, which, by all powers of judgment, ought to have been black rat’s fur.

A mere hawk, or even an owl, might have considered this rebuff enough, but not the harrier. He wafted himself ten feet aloft on his long narrow vans, and, flapping owl-like, or almost butterfly-like, began to beat, and the beating of the harrying harrier, up and down, is one of the most trying ordeals, for the game beaten for, in the wild.

Mrs. Ratus sat where she was, he presumed, playing the same bluff.

But both were without cover, and the black rat, I fear, devoutly hoped that she would be fool enough to move and give herself away first; whilst she, on her part, was cursing him for many kinds of a fool for starting their “flitting” before it was dark.

While she sat and froze—­in both senses—­however, the black rat, rigid as a beast cut out of coal, with one bright, shining eye upon the harrier beating up and down, was probing the dusk with the other eye.  And presently he thought he saw his chance.  He would have had to move, anyway, I fancy, for the strain of sitting there bang in the open was unendurable.  His nerves would have snapped.  So he went to his chance—­a hole in the bank of the ditch.

I say he went, but I only take it to be so because he got there.  One could not actually see him go.  One had only an idea, quite an uncertain idea, that something, most like a swift bird, had passed up the ditch, and one could not swear even to that.  It seemed impossible that the flying something had been a four-legged animal.