Then the faces began - little, evil, wedge-shaped faces, looking out of holes, and then vanishing. Mole kept up his pace and, looking round, saw every hole with a face in it, all fixing him with evil, sharp looks.
Then the whistling began. Very faint and shrill, behind, and then ahead of him. Mole was alone, and far from help, and night was closing in.
Then the pattering began. Tiny feet pursuing him, rustling through the fallen leaves. He ran, and started bumping into trees.
Meanwhile, Rat had discovered Mole was not at home. He saw his footprints outside, leading to the Wild Wood. Seizing a stout stick, he set out at a smart pace to track him. At last he found the Mole, in the shelter of an old beech tree, trembling all over, and so glad his friend had come.