From the moment when the big rooster on the topmost perch stretched
forth his neck, flapped his wings, and crowed as only he can crow, Reddy
was on pins and needles, as the saying is. Hiding behind a box in the
darkest corner of the henhouse, he hardly dared to breathe. You see, he
didn't want those hens to discover him. He knew that if they did they
would make such a racket that they would bring Farmer Brown's boy
hurrying out to find out what the trouble was.

Reddy had had experience with hens before. He knew that if Farmer
Brown's boy heard them making a great racket, he would know that
something was wrong, and he would come all prepared. This was the one
thing that Reddy did not want. His one chance to escape would be to take
Farmer Brown's boy entirely by surprise.

Never had time dragged more slowly. The hens were awake, and several of
them flew down to the floor of the henhouse. They passed so close to
where Reddy was hiding that merely by reaching out a black paw he could
have touched them. Because he took particular pains not to move, not
even to twitch a black ear, they did not see him. Anyway, if they did
see him, they took no notice of him. How the moments did drag! All the
time he lay there listening, wishing that Farmer Brown's boy would come,
yet dreading to have him come. It seemed ages before he heard sounds
which told him that people were awake in Farmer Brown's house.

Finally he heard a distant door slam. Then he heard a whistle, a merry
whistle. It drew nearer and nearer; Farmer Brown's boy was coming to
feed the hens. Reddy tried to hold his breath. He heard the click of the
henyard gate as Farmer Brown's boy opened it, then he heard the crunch,
crunch, crunch of Farmer Brown's boy's feet on the snow.