The mole lurched slowly forward, swaying his noddle-head from side to side, nosing each inch of ground. Blood had enticed him upwards, and blood he meant to taste. It seemed as though short measure must content him--a smear upon a grass stem, a drop upon a pebble. But presently his nose flung up; on either side of it the velvet starred, leaving two loop-holes for his pin-head eyes; he snuffed and peered about him; his brush-tail jerked and quivered; a snarl laid bare his teeth; and then, his instinct mastering circumstance, he charged, with swift alternate strokes, straight at the Pygmy's shelter. Had his eye seen? Had his nose smelt? At least he had a visible allurement--a half inch of the Pygmy's tail. The Pygmy curled it promptly, but, even as it moved, the mole was thundering at the bark. The Pygmy squeezed himself a half inch further, and this half inch meant life. The mole had bored his snout into the breach, and by a forward wriggle brought his teeth to bear. [Illustration: THE MOLE PLUNGED INTO THE AIR] The outworks broke and crumbled like a biscuit. His nose attained the citadel itself, but here the assault was checked. Strain as he would he could not get fair tooth-hold, for, working upwards in cramped quarters, he spent his strength in struggling for a purchase. Only exhaustion stays the hunting mole, and such exhaustion ends in death. This mole was not exhausted yet. He screwed his nose unceasingly, forced his teeth forward line by line, and ground the bark to powder; snatched out his head for air, and thrust his hand in place of it; snatched back his hand and used his jaws once more. Harder and harder still he worked, closer and closer still he drew, until one claw touched fur. It was a graze, a skin scrape; the fur shrank out of reach, but the mere contact goaded him to frenzy. He squirmed and writhed and strained until, by muscle strength alone, he forced his head and shoulders through the gap. His nose now touched his quarry, his hands were squared beneath his chin, palms back, and thus, in earth, he might have tunnelled far. But the stiff shell of bark was obdurate. The white owl helped him out. She caught him at the bottom of her swoop, and loosed him high up on the elm-tree. Here the white owlets welcomed him. Before she turned, the Pygmy had reached home. [Illustration] * * * * * * Transcriber's note: Apparent typographical errors have been corrected. Inconsistencies in the use of hyphens have been retained.