I was almost
dozing off again when Bock gave a low growl.
No woman of my bulk has a right to be nervous, I guess, but
instantly my security vanished! The patter of the rain seemed
menacing, and I imagined a hundred horrors. I was totally
alone and unarmed, and Bock was not a large dog. He growled
again, and I felt worse than before. I imagined that I heard
stealthy sounds in the bushes, and once Peg snorted as though
frightened. 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.
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