TAD COON GOES BACK TO PRISON
Everybody looked serious when Stripes Skunk explained that all the
houses and barns and sheds on a farm were traps to catch the things
who live in them. Even Doctor Muskrat didn’t know any better than to
believe him, nor Chatter Squirrel, nor Chaik the Jay, nor Tad Coon.
But Nibble Rabbit pulled down his ear with his paw and licked the end
of it very thoughtfully. “The cows aren’t trapped,” he said. “The
White Cow said that cows lived in those barns because they made a
compact with man. They give him milk, and he feeds them and keeps the
wolves from killing them.”
“But there aren’t any more wolves!” argued Doctor Muskrat.
“The cows don’t know that,” said Nibble. “They thought Silvertip the
Fox was a wolf. They were terribly excited about him.” My, but you
ought to have seen Silk-ears. She began sitting up straight and
putting her fur in order; she felt so vain because Nibble seemed to
know all about everything.
And you ought to have seen Tad Coon’s eyes sparkle again. “Those big
cages--barns, you call them, do you, Nibble?--can’t all be traps. The
rats scuttle in and out of them.”
“But you’re bigger than the rats,” said Stripes. He still felt scary.
“But I’m not any bigger than Louie Thomson,” Tad argued. “I’m not
nearly as big. I can use his hole.” Of course he meant the cellar
door. “And I’ve just got to catch that mean old rat. He said he’d eat
me, he did. Guess I’ll show him who’s going to do the eating.”
So off waddled that smarty coon. He sneaked round behind the woodpile
and scuttled down into the cellar when nobody was looking. There was
his cage, just the way he’d left it that morning. He climbed in and
lay down.
It grew darker and darker. Pitter, pitter, sounded the feet of the
scuttling mice. Then came the sound he was listening for--the
scritchy-scratch of that rat’s claws on the cellar door. “Hey, you
coon!” called the rat. He wanted to be sure Tad wasn’t out of that
cage, hiding in some corner, ready to pounce on him. Tad didn’t
answer. So the rat ran up a pipe and crept along until he could peek
through the darkness. Tad could hear him sniffing. “Are you ready for
the rubbish-pile already?” he asked. Still Tad didn’t say anything.
Thump! He landed on the top of the cage. He felt the door was open. He
crept in!
Bounce! Bite! Scree-ee-eech! That was the end of Mr. Rat! But--Bang!
went the door! Tad was locked in again. Poor Tad Coon!
That’s what always happened to Tad. Every time he played a smarty
trick on somebody it was sure to come back on him.
Tad Coon made some noise, I can tell you, when he caught that rat down
in his jangly old cage. And the cage door made some more when it fell
down and locked Tad in. And Tad made more yet, shaking the bars,
trying to get out again.
Louie Thomson’s family was getting ready to go to bed. His father
growled: “If that beast in the cellar makes any more noise I’ll go
down there and kill him.”
Louie didn’t answer. He didn’t dare to argue. Besides, he didn’t
believe it was really Tad. He’d let him go just that morning!
Louie’s mother asked: “Louie, did you remember to feed that coon?”
“No’m,” said Louie.
“Well, then, you can pick some scraps out of the pig’s pail to give
him,” said she. She didn’t dare offer him anything else because his
father was listening.
Do you think Louie would do that? I guess not. He’d learned something
that afternoon. Tommy Peele showed him how nice sweet roasting ears of
fresh corn were what you ought to feed a coon. He just pretended to
pick up something, and then he sneaked down to listen. The coon was
there all right enough; he could hear him. You just ought to have
heard Louie then. His bare feet went pat-pat-patting over to his
father’s cornfield. Then they came pat-pat-patting back again. Pat-pat
they went on the cellar floor. And Tad could smell the nice sweet
corn.
[Illustration: Tad and Louie had the grain sacks flying, to find the
family of mice.]
“There!” said Louie in a happy voice, “I guess you’ll be glad you came
back again.” And he poked the corn into the cage. “Oh, I thought you
hated me. I do want you to like me, you nice coon.”
Was this the cross little boy who’d snapped and snarled at him? Tad
just couldn’t believe his ears. He stopped eating to listen.
“I will be good to you--’deed I will--if you’ll only be tame,” Louie
was saying in this brand-new voice.
Tad poked his nose through his bars and sniffed at him. Then he took
hold of his door in his handy-paws and shook it until the cellar
echoed with its jangly noise.
“Don’t, don’t!” begged Louie. “My pa will hear you.” But Tad wanted to
be let out. He went on shaking. “Aw, what’s the use of locking you up,
you’ll come back to me, anyhow,” said Louie at last. He reached for
the door and Tad’s little handy-paw caught hold of his finger. But he
didn’t jerk it away, because this wasn’t a snappy, snarly coon. This
cunning little fellow didn’t bite him any more than he’d bite Tommy
Peele. He opened the door.
Thump went Tad on the floor. But this time he didn’t try to run--he
was too busy examining Louie Thomson. He twitched Louie’s trousers and
he felt of Louie’s toes, and his curious little handy-paws were so
tickly they set Louie giggling.
Louie’s mother finished sweeping out her kitchen. She was all ready to
go to bed now except for one thing. “It’s kind of funny,” she said to
herself, “I haven’t seen Louie since I sent him down cellar to feed
his coon.” So she took the lamp and started down the stairs, using the
broom for a cane, because it came in so handy when she felt tired and
stiff. On the fourth step she stopped to listen. That was a queer
sound! There it was again. She smiled herself.
For what she heard was Louie giggling because Tad Coon’s handy-paws
tickled him. Tad was examining him to see if he carried a bug in his
pocket, like Tommy Peele. Nobody could convince Tad that Tommy’s noisy
ticky watch wasn’t a bug.
The lamp cast a light on the cellar floor and Tad saw a mouse. He
whisked around and caught it. There, now he could see a pile of grain
sacks where he knew there was a whole family of them. He didn’t stop
to think where the light was coming from. He’d got used to light and
noises while Louie kept him locked up in that awful cage. He used to
hate the cellar, too. Now that he was free he thought it was fun--the
loveliest sort of a place to go hunting in. You’d better believe he
and Louie had those grain sacks flying.
“Louie Thomson!” said his mother. “Whatever are you doing?”
“My coon’s catching a mouse,” laughed Louie. “Oh, Ma, he’s tame! I let
him go this morning and he came right back again.” Of course Tad came
back to get even with that mean old rat who plagued him while he was
starving in his prison. But Louie didn’t guess that. “Shh, Ma!” he
said. “Hold your light so’s he can see. Look! He’s caught another!”
“Good land!” exclaimed his mother again. “He’s smarter than a cat. I
wish he’d come up and clean a few out o’ my kitchen.”
Just then, clump, clump, came Louie’s father down the stairs. Even Tad
could tell he was angry by the way he was stamping--you know coons and
skunks and bunnies, even, do it, too. He guessed it was time to be
going.
“What does all this racket mean?” shouted Louie’s father. “I told you
I’d kill that beast if I heard any more from him; now I’m going to do
it.” And he snatched the broom from his wife’s hand. He wanted to use
it for a club. Then he looked in the cage.
He didn’t see any coon, but he did see the corn Louie had brought for
him! “What do you mean,” he roared, “breaking off my corn for your
beast? I told you to leave my grain strictly alone. Now I’ll give you
a licking you won’t forget. Where’s that brute gone?”
Tad was sneaking around behind him in the dark shadows. Whack! The
broomstick just missed him as he bounced out the cellar door. Whack,
whack, it came down on Louie Thomson’s shoulders. Out of the cellar
door he bolted, too, and raced after Tad Coon.