So Jerry Muskrat sat alone and watched. The black shadows crept
farther and farther across the pond and grew blacker and blacker.
Jerry didn't mind this, because, as you know, his eyes are made for
seeing in the dark, and he dearly loves the night. Jerry had sat
there a long time without moving. He was listening and watching.
By and by he saw something that made him draw in his breath and
anger leap into his eyes. It was a little silver line on the water,
and it was coming straight towards the dam where he sat. Jerry knew
that it was made by some one swimming.

"Ha!" said Jerry. "Now we shall see!"

Nearer and nearer came the silver line. Then Jerry made out the head
of the swimmer. Suddenly all the anger left Jerry. He didn't have
room for anger; a great fear had crowded it out. The head was bigger
than that of any Muskrat Jerry had ever seen. It was bigger than
the head of any of Billy Mink's relatives. It was the head of a
stranger, a stranger so big that Jerry felt very, very small and
hoped with all his might that the stranger would not see him.

Jerry held his breath as the stranger swam past and then climbed out
on the dam. He looked very much like Jerry himself, only ever and
ever so much bigger. And his tail! Jerry had never seen such a tail.
It was very broad and flat. Suddenly the big stranger turned and
looked straight at Jerry.

"Hello, Jerry Muskrat!" said he. "Don't you know me?"

Jerry was too frightened to speak.