"Not you!" she answered bravely, "the trap's not closed—not half. Wriggle, dear Uncle, wriggle!"
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.