The Fox Cub's eyes missed nothing.
Movement above he saw—the brown owl changing station. Movement upon mid-slope—the dormouse in the brambles. Movement upon the cart-track—the shrewmouse worrying snails. But these were mere diversions—their interest passed. The bracken furnished a besetting problem—movement inexplicable, sound inexplicable—long-drawn, wheezy breathings, snorts of exertion, sighs of content. There was scent also, heavy musted scent, which came in whiffs and dangled at his nose.
But for this scent he must have smelt the Stoat. The Stoat came dancing up the wind, passed by to right of him, and swung about. He held himself with an air, his body arched, one broad white pad uplifted, his tail curved decorously. From where he lay, the Fox Cub took his measure, then slowly reared himself and yawned. He, too, had teeth to show.
The Stoat's black tail twitched side to side. He met the challenge squarely. The Fox Cub sank full length again. The Stoat tiptoed towards him, and, stretching full-neck forward, nibbled at his fur. So was their peace established.
"Badger," whispered the Stoat, and danced from point to point excitedly, "Badger, grub-grub-grubbing."
HE SANK FROM HIS HINDQUARTERS FORWARD SLOWLY, GROUNDED HIS NOSE BETWEEN HIS PAWS AND STARED
A stunted patch of bracken burst apart, and from its cover lurched a broad grey back.
"He scents you," said the Stoat.
The Fox Cub still lay motionless. It was the broadest back he yet had seen.