he
black tunnel in search of something whereon to wreak his emotions.

[Illustration: "WITH A FRANTIC LEAP HE SHOT THROUGH THE AIR."]

Now as the fates of the underworld would have it, at this moment the
lazy old mole who owned these burrows was returning from his tour of
investigation. He came to the fork where the shrew had gone by an hour
before. The strong, disagreeable, musky smell of the intruder arrested
him. His keen nose sniffed at it with resentment and alarm, and told him
the whole story, there in the dark, more plainly than if it had passed
in daylight before his purblind eyes. It told him that some time had
gone by since the intruder's passing. But what it could not tell him
was that the intruder was just now on his way back. After some moments
of hesitation the long, cylindrical, limp body of the mole scuffled out
into the main tunnel, and turned toward the exit. Its movement was
rather slow and awkward, owing to the fact that the fore legs were set
on each side of the body, like flippers, which was an excellent
arrangement for digging, but a very bad one for plain walking.

The mole had not advanced more than a yard or so along the main tunnel
when again that strong, musky smell smote his nostrils. This time it was
fresh and warm. Indeed, it was startlingly imminent. Elongating his soft
body till it was not more than half its usual thickness, the mole
doubled in his tracks, intent upon the speediest possible retreat. In
that very instant, while he was in the midst of this awkward effort to
turn, the shrew fell upon him, gripping and tearing his soft,
unprotected flank.

The mole was not altogether deficient in character; and he was larger
and heavier than his assailant. Seeing that escape was impossible, and
stung by the pain of his wounds, he flung himself with energy into the
struggle, biting desperately and striving to bear down his lighter
opponent. It was a blind smother of a fight, there in that pitch-black
narrow tunnel whose walls pressed ceaselessly upon it and hemmed it in.
From the smother came no sound but an occasional squeak of rage or pain,
barely audible to the lurking spiders among the grass-stems just
overhead. The thin turf heaved vaguely, and the grass-blades vibrated to
the unseen struggle; but not even the low-flying marsh-hawk could guess
the cause of these mysterious disturbances.

For several minutes the mole made a good fight. Then the indomitable
savagery of his enemy's att