Over the garden he rushed and through a gate that had foolishly been left open. Here was shelter at last he thought, as he saw a shed in front of him. Stumbling and rushing on he darted through a hole in the wall, and — landed right in the middle of the fowl-house where all the silly old hens and roosters were asleep. They cackled and crowed with fright; fell off their perches, and floundered around all over the fowl-house in the dark. You never heard such a row!

Somewhere Blinky was in the middle of it. Feathers flew, and the old hens became hysterical. To make matters worse Mr Smifkins and his dog were coming.

“I’ll have you, whatever you are!” he called at the top of his voice.

“A fox. I’ll bet my hat it is!” he cried as he came nearer and nearer. Blinky was lucky in being able to see in the dark and through the feathers and straw that flew about he spied a box in the corner.

With a bound he was in, and, ugh! something soft cracked under him. He did not know he was in a nest and had sat on Mrs Speckles’s best egg. He lay there huddled up, straw and feathers all over him, one eye peeping round the corner watching for Mr Smifkins. It was a terrible moment and his breath seemed to leave him altogether.

“What the dickens did I do with my matches?” Mr Smifkins growled, as he crawled into the fowl-house. His entrance caused more cackling and the poor old hens flapped about madly. They were not used to midnight visitors. But Mr Smifkins took no heed of the cackling and squawking, he was determined to find the animal that had caused all this disturbance. Worst of all he called his dog in.

“Here Bluey! Skeech him out of it,” he ordered at the top of his voice.

Bluey was a cattle-dog and it did not take him many moments to nose his way to the nest.

Blinky scratched his nose as hard as he could and kicked with all his might. Bluey yelped with pain and fright and darted round to the back of the box.

“Here, let me there!” called Mr Smifkins, who had found his matches by now and was holding the light in his hands. Carefully peering into the box he saw Blinky, shuddering with fright, one paw raised, ready to scratch.

“Well, I’ll be blowed!” Mr Smifkins cried in astonishment. “A koala — of all things. You young beggar. Come out of it my lad, and let me have a look at you.”

But Blinky had no intention of coming out. He growled louder and louder.

Mr Smifkins bent his head lower to have an extra good look at the mischief maker. At the same moment, Blinky kicked out a bundle of straw, feathers, and a broken egg, right into Mr Smifkins’s face. The match went out and — oh! Mr Smifkins lost his temper.

“You young devil!” he roared. “You bad young egg-stealer! You’ll come along with me now, and I’ll teach you how to behave like a gentleman. Sneaking round a fellow’s bed in the dark — frightening the wits out of his wife and hens, and driving old Neddy into twenty fits all at once. Come out of it or I’ll rake you out!”

Blinky only huddled up all the closer in the nest and growled his loudest.

“So you won’t come out!” shouted Mr Smifkins, seizing the rake he kept to clean the fowl-house with. “Out you come, and no nonsense,” he cried as he poked the end of the rake in the box. Blinky bit it and scratched with rage. Mr Smifkins poked harder and poked Blinky right in the tummy.

This was too much for him.