Mowgli did not wait any longer. He ran on and the sounds of the pack grew fainter behind him as he ran into the fields where the villagers lived. "Bagheera spoke the truth," he panted, as he hid in some cattle fodder by the window of a hut. "To-morrow we will find out what happens to Akela and to me." Then he pressed his face close to the window of the hut and watched the fireplace. He saw the farmer's wife get up in the night and feed the fire with wood. And when the morning came and the mist was white and cold, he saw the man's child pick up a wooden pot plastered inside with earth, fill it with red-hot wood, put it under his blanket, and go out to take care of the cows.

"Is that all?" said Mowgli. "If a cub can do it, there is nothing to fear." So he went round the corner and met the boy, took the pot from his hand, and disappeared into the mist while the boy cried with fear. "It is like me," said Mowgli, blowing into the pot the way he had seen the woman blow. "This thing will die if I do not give it things to eat"; and he dropped small bits of wood and dried leaves on the red stuff. Halfway up the hill he met Bagheera. The morning dew was shining like diamonds on Bagheera's coat.

"Akela has missed his kill," said the panther. "The other wolves would have killed him last night, but they wanted you as well. They were looking for you."