It was too much for Bartimæus' nerves. He turned about and fled, crashed luckily through his own tunnel's roof, and ran as though mole-ghosts were at his heels. And something ran ahead of him, and reached the thistle half a yard in front. [Illustration: THE HARVEST MOUSE DREW HERSELF UP INDIGNANT] "Did you find it?" said the Harvest Mouse. She sat at her old station nibbling. "You beast," said Bartimæus, "you heartless little beast." The Harvest Mouse drew herself up indignant. "You're blinder than I thought," she said. "It was a mean trick," muttered Bartimæus. "It was a good turn," said the Harvest Mouse. "Now listen, for I know this meadow end to end. It is no place for Moles. Ask the red-coated Meadow Mouse. Ask the Pygmy Shrew. Ask any one who really knows. Worse things than dogs come into it." [Illustration: "WEASELS!" SAID THE MEADOW MOUSE] "Weasels!" said the Meadow Mouse. "Oh, never wait for weasels in a run. I really thought that you were one behind me." This to Bartimæus. "Cats!" said the Pygmy Shrew. Vainly did Bartimæus strive to see her--a sorrel leaf concealed her, head to tail. "Worse than dogs. Worse than weasels. Worse than cats," said the Harvest Mouse. "TRAPS!" "We Harvest Mice are never trapped, and stump-tail mice are only trapped by chance--or their own folly. I saw one once. He walked inside because it rained in torrents. Down went the door, and he was drowned, with cheese afloat all round him." "Cheese is good," said the Meadow Mouse. "Cheese is glorious," said the Pygmy Shrew. "There you are. You'd go anywhere for cheese," said the Harvest Mouse. "One bite--a snap behind--and then where are you?" "I'm out in front," said the Pygmy Shrew. "You'll try that once too often," said the Harvest Mouse. "Now I hate cheese--the smell of it spells danger. But there are traps and traps--and the worst traps are traps with nothing in them." "That's so," said the Meadow Mouse. "You can smell them, can't you?" said Bartimæus. "You can smell them if you go slow enough," said the Harvest Mouse, "but when do _you_ go slow? Now mark my words. It's just about your sleeping time. You'll sleep for your full hour, then you'll wake hungry. You'll rush full tilt until you reach your slant. You'll rush down that, you'll rush along your gallery. _Won't_ you now?" "P'raps," muttered Bartimæus. He had withdrawn his nose below, and sleep was stealing over him. "Well, don't!" said the Harvest Mouse. "Don't!" said the Meadow Mouse. "Don't!" said the Pygmy. "Don't what?" said Bartimæus in his sleep. "Don't rush!" said the Harvest Mouse. "Don't rush. Don't rush!" * * * * * He slept for his full hour and woke to find the Pygmy at his side. "It's in your centre gallery," she whispered. "I've slipped right through it twice." "My _centre_ gallery?" shouted Bartimæus. "My _centre_ gallery? I'll have my centre gallery clear." He started burrowing straightway.