He knew that as soon as Timmy awoke, he, Whitefoot,
would have to get out. Where should he go? He wished he knew.
How he did long for the old home he had left. But when he thought
of that, he remembered Shadow the Weasel. It was better to be
homeless than to feel that at any minute Shadow the Weasel might
appear.
It was getting late in the afternoon. Before long, jolly, round,
red Mr. Sun would go to bed behind the Purple Hills, and the Black
Shadows would come creeping through the Green Forest. Then Timmy
the Flying Squirrel would awake. "It won't do for me to be here
then," said Whitefoot to himself. "I must find some other place
before he wakes. If only I knew this part of the Green Forest I
might know where to go. As it is, I shall have to go hunt for a
new home and trust to luck. Did ever a poor little Mouse have so
much trouble?"
After awhile Whitefoot felt rested and peeped out of the doorway.
No enemy was to be seen anywhere. Whitefoot crept out and climbed
a little higher up in the tree. Presently he found another hole.
He peeped inside and listened long and carefully.
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