"Don't rush!" the Pygmy screamed behind. "Don't rush! It's death to rush!" And yet it was his rush that saved him. [Illustration: "DON'T RUSH!" THE PYGMY SCREAMED BEHIND] The crumbled earth which still lay in the bolt-hole, melted before it. Part slipped to either side of him. Part massed before his plunging head, and, reaching the clear downshaft, dropped. With it there dropped a stone--a rounded half-inch stone, which danced along the gallery at the foot, cannoned from side to side of it, spun round and pulled up short, six inches in advance of him. His senses signalled something in his path. His senses signalled a clear passage through it, and a clear space beyond it. His senses urged more pace. So he crashed on. He stubbed his hands against a ring of iron: the ring gave way: there was a snap and two iron jaws had gripped his waist. But for the stone which jammed against the clinch of them, he must have met his death. And death itself had scarcely brought more torture. It was as though the half of him sped on while half remained behind. The back wrench left him senseless, and so the Pygmy found him. It was the pit-pat of her on his fur, the cobweb flutter of her questionings, which roused him back to life. [Illustration: HIS FORTRESS, HIS OWN FORTRESS, HAD BEEN BREACHED] "I'm done," he muttered, "done as sure as sure." "Not you!" she answered bravely, "the trap's not closed--not half. _Wriggle_, dear Uncle, _wriggle_!" And Bartimæus wriggled. He wriggled right; he wriggled left; he wriggled up; he wriggled down; he brought his hands to bear upon the iron and with a supreme twist he wriggled free. Then he saw red. He flung himself against the trap, and bit at it, and scratched at it, and shook it with his shoulders, and heaved and strained and wrenched at it, until it lay upturned upon the surface. He was convulsed with windy gusts of rage: nose-tip to tail he boiled; nor did he gain composure until the field was far behind, and he had reached the smooth-faced tube which led to his own fortress. Hand over foot he sped the length of it, dived down the U-shaped entrance hole, bobbed up again and climbed into his nest. His troubles were not over. His fortress, his own fortress, had been breached. The nest lay open to the day, windswept. For a full hour he toiled repairing it, then, mole-tired, coiled to sleep. SOMETHING ABOUT A CHAMÆLEON (NOVEMBER) "''Tis green! 'tis green, Sir, I assure ye.' 'Green!' cries the other in a fury. 'Why, Sir, d'ye think I've lost my eyes?' ''Twere no great loss,' the friend replies, 'For if they always serve you thus, 'You'll find them but of little use.'"