Part 22

"Quite so," said the Fox Cub.

The Marten snuggled down, her eyes a-twinkle.

"I know exactly the kind of hole you'd like," she said.

"Where's that?" said the Fox Cub.

"Listen to me carefully," said the Marten, "and you can't miss it. You know where the holm oak is--of course you don't. Look here. Get back on to the ride and follow that. It leads you to a hollow."

"It leads two ways," said the Fox Cub.

"You go downhill to the hollow," said the Marten, gently. "Right at the bottom you will find an oak-stump, and if you look inside it (which I don't advise), you will find a family of Polecats."

"Polecats?" said the Fox Cub.

"Yes, Polecats," said the Marten.

"Turn up to the left at the stump, and make for the silver birch at the top of the rise. The hole is close by that."

"Much obliged," said the Fox Cub, "and perhaps you will be good enough to get higher up the tree, while I come underneath."

"Certainly," said the Marten. From twig to twig she sprang, so daintily, so airily, that a mere flutter signalled her ascent.

"Will this do?" cried she from the topmost branch. Her forefeet hung on its extremity; her hind-feet curved and dangled; her tail twitched underneath her.

"That will do," said the Fox Cub. Before the words were spoken he was past the tree; before the Marten reached the ground he gained his stride, which was good going. The Marten checked at twenty yards. "I've done my share," she said, and sauntered up the tree again.

The Fox Cub quickly hit the ride, noted its slope, and keeping close in touch with it, slunk velvet-footed through the abutting cover. His pads dropped soft as thistle-down, he scarcely stirred a leaf, and yet the weasel, nosing in the brambles, got wind of him and squeaked. She was a five-inch weasel, too small to check his progress, yet large enough for mischief. Should she be silenced? He swung about--the scent of her still lingered--and in a moment he was on her trail. Three bounds and he had sighted her. She shot beneath a bramble-patch, issued where he had least foreseen, and tricked him in a maze of straggling roots. He worked back, sulky-faced, towards the ride, but checked ten paces from the oak-stump. Its tenant sat upon it--the purple, snaking, whiplash thing which had perplexed him earlier. Now he saw head to tail of it. The white-rimmed ears, the ochre-banded forehead, the bold eyes, spectacled with brown, the coarse brown-purple body-fur flecked here and there with streaks of shimmery buff--all these he took quiet note of, and presently saw many aspects of them.

The Marten had been right. The Polecat's mate came sneaking from the hollow, and close behind her squirmed four red-brown cubs, loose-jointed yet, but muscular, whimpering pettishly, mauling each other as they ran.

Six Polecats knit by kinship! it was too much for one Fox Cub to face. He cast wide off to right of them, and, creeping quietly round again, regained the ride to leeward. Here it cut through rough coppice. The western slope was thickly wooded, low bushes mostly, chestnut, birch, and hazel, yet high enough to screen what lay beyond. He started to explore the upper ground. At first the incline was easy, but half way up it steepened to a cliff. Coppice gave place to grass and briar, and these in turn to gorse and slithery sand. By slow degrees he zigzagged to the summit, faced round, and scanned the depths which he had left. The oak stump stood out clear against the ride, and, on his right, two hundred yards away, he marked the silver birch. He scrambled down to grass again, and, travelling quickly on mid-slope, found what he sought within two minutes.

Viewed from below--it opened near the skyline--the hole seemed promising enough. It was a spacious sheltered hole, almost a cavern--the depths of it ink-black, the entrance to it jagged and arching. The Fox Cub stole up cautiously and stopped dead on its threshold. Something was in possession, something which split the darkened void in three; something which crept out slowly from the black, first shadowy grey, then white--a clean-cut fleur-de-lys of white.

It was another Badger.

The Fox Cub leapt back sideways, but even so she caught him. She came out (thirty pounds of her) full charge, and caught him low. The attacking badger tosses like a bull, trusting to weight and side-swing of the shoulders. He somersaulted twice. The Badger held straight on her course and disappeared downhill.

The Fox Cub slowly pulled himself together. Had he been bitten? Bruised he was all over, and sick, and giddy; and so, the hole being there, he crept within it, and crawled down the main shaft for fifteen yards, and took one of four turnings, and followed this until it forked, and then chose the right gallery, and so attained the nest. Rather the haystack, for the making of it had almost stripped an acre. Bracken there was, and bent-grass, thyme and clover, arum stalk and bluebell, thick swathes of them inextricably tangled, bedding enough for twenty half-grown cubs.

There was food also. He found a rabbit's leg at once, then a stiff mummied frog, then half a snake. He made a closer search, and found more rabbit. Each find he sampled. Most of them he gulped, but some he buried carefully for seasoning, scraping small hollows to receive them, and plastering earth upon them with his nose. This done, he coiled himself up tight, and for five minutes dozed with wakeful ears. Thirst brought him to his feet again; thirst and a sense of danger. Clearly this was the Badger's hole--he owed that Marten something. The hole had a main entrance. From this a single shaft led fifteen yards, but then it split, and smaller tunnels joined it, tunnels which might end blind. Badgers no doubt were most benevolent, but Badgers seem to charge at sight, and tunnels were poor places to be charged in. The last reflection scared him back to sense. He would be cornered hopelessly, would not know which of twenty turns to take. That settled it. To wait for them was madness. He must go.

He reached the entrance without accident, and dropped soft-footed down the slope. A puddle on the ride was in his mind--a puddle just beyond the Polecat's stump. He reached this safely also, stooped down his head, and lapped his fill.

The wood was oddly silent. Dark clouds had massed low in the sky and streamed to either side, outflanking it. Beneath their dreary shadow the green and russet of the trees faded to lifeless grey. The grass-blades stood up stiffly; the leaves hung stiffly downwards. All that was weatherwise was taking cover. Down from the summit of the ride came the two Badgers, bumping. They travelled leisurely.

First He would root an arum up (a flick with one fore-paw), and She would place her paw where his had been. Then He would stretch tiptoe against an oak, and She would do the same. Then He would wheel sharp right or left, and She would follow like a truck.

The Cub had time to entrench himself securely. He chose the summit of the Polecat's stump, and from it watched the pair of them bump past. They quickened as they faced the rise, and grunted to each other; then, with their heads down, sped in line uphill.

And with their going came the rain.

It spattered in large warning drops, then swished in sheets. Even before the thunder-peals, and rattle of fierce hail, the stump became untenable. The Fox Cub scrambled down from it, headed a dozen different ways, and, in the end, grown desperate, pursued the retreating Badgers. He caught them as they reached the hole, and saw them topple down it. He gave them half a minute's grace and toppled after.