But Nydia had been mightily offended. Each time she had boxed his ears. Each time she had bitten him. And so he had retreated; not for fear, but for black shame—black shame which he had brought upon himself; for Father Moles may not approach Mole babies—that is Mole law, and that has been Mole law since Moles first dug.
Long journeyings these to Nydia, a hundred yards each way at least, but not of length to tire him. He had found time and energy for in-between excursions. One to the mill-house orchard—there staring hillocks proved it; one to the sacred croquet lawn—he left his marks here also; one to the mid-field partridge nest, which meant one egg the less.
He headed straight for Water
A cheerful strenuous day's work; on which, but for the finish of it, he might have slept at ease.
Nydia's last bite and buffet had been real.
She swept her right hand cross-ways, baring her teeth in line with it, and screwing round her shoulders for the swing. Then she lunged backwards viciously. This meant a dragging wound which hurt, and Bartimæus had bitten too, and, as ill-luck would have it, bitten a baby. Nydia flung at him squealing, and, when a Mother Mole flings at you squealing, one prudent course and only one is open.
His nose was bleeding as he started home, and he was hot and thirsty. He headed straight for water. A ten-yard down-slant brought him to the brook. He drank his fill, then, tempted by the coolness, set off swimming. He swam as deftly as a water-shrew, high out of water, with his stumpy tail cocked upward in his wake.
THE BANK ROSE STEEPLY OVER HIM