Out like a loosened spring leapt Bartimæus, and plunged into his surface run. Half-way along it he stopped dead and listened, the tip of his pink nose thrust through the roof. [Illustration] Man's booted tread he knew full well; man's voice he knew, but something else was coming,--something which lilted pit-a-pat, something with yielding velvet pads, something four-footed. It danced towards him, louder still and louder, till a hoarse whisper checked it. "Steady you fool! Here good dog! Steady!" The pink nose dropped. Only one grass-blade stirred, but Tatters saw it. His every muscle tautened as he pointed. His hair stood stiff upon his back, his eyes stared fixedly. [Illustration: ONLY ONE GRASS-BLADE STIRRED, BUT TATTERS SAW IT] For half a minute he stood tense; then Bartimæus breathed, and at his breath a grass-stem twitched and flickered. Tatters upreared and poised himself, stayed poised a moment, then, with a vicious dropping lunge, stabbed with his forefeet downward. His muzzle followed instantly, and screwed and ploughed along the run until the weight of roof upcurled checked further progress. Then only did he raise his head and look back shamefaced at his master. He had completely missed. "Tatters, you'm grown old, I reckon--like your Master. Never mind, lad, we'll have 'im yet. We'll put a trap down tea-time. Come off it now! Think you can scratch him out?" Tatters was burrowing tooth and nail, uprooting grass clumps with his teeth, drumming with his forefeet, and showering sods between his hind feet backwards. He raised a wistful, mud-stained face and whined, shook himself doubtfully, started, turned back for one more scratch, then galloped to his master's call. And Bartimæus had been burrowing too--opening a bolt-hole which should close behind him, passing the dislodged earth beneath himself, and piling it to cover his retreat. Tatters had all but pinned his body, and that would have meant death to him. Tatters _had_ pinned his tail, but, with a wriggle, he had freed himself, out-distanced the pursuing nose, dived through the nest, and twisting sharply right, reached the west outlet shaft. Fist over feet he scuttled down and screwed himself into the blinded end. He bored two yards zigzagging, then paused for breath. He pricked his stumpy whiskers up, starred the grey fur about his eyes, spread wide his pinhole ears. He was quite safe. The ground before, behind, and on all sides of him, was dead. Ten minutes passed before he moved, then he worked quickly upwards, and broke the ground beneath a clump of thistles. [Illustration] "They've gone," said a small piping voice above him. The nose of Bartimæus, pink and quivery, had issued first, his bullet head had followed, then his great hands and shoulders. The sunbeams played upon his coat, and waves of limpid shimmery blue crept softly to and fro in it. "They've gone," the Harvest Mouse repeated.