I put my hand
down to pat Bock, and found that his neck was all bristly, like a
fighting cock. He uttered a queer half growl, half whine, which
gave me a chill. Some one must be prowling about the van, but in the
falling rain I could hear nothing.
I felt I must do something. I was afraid to call out lest I betray
the fact that there was only a woman in the van. My expedient was
absurd enough, but at any rate it satisfied my desire to act. I
seized one of my boots and banged vigorously on the floor, at the
same time growling in as deep and masculine a voice as I could
muster: "What the hell's the matter? What the hell's the matter?"
This sounds silly enough, I dare say, but it afforded me some
relief. And as Bock shortly ceased growling, it apparently served
some purpose.
I lay awake for a long time, tingling all over with nervousness.
Then I began to grow calmer, and was getting drowsy almost in spite
of myself when I was aroused by the unmistakable sound of Bock's
tail thumping on the floor--a sure sign of pleasure.
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