"It's near the fence," the Harvest Mouse replied, "you'd better run and look at it."
"It would take a lot to scare me," said Bartimæus, and puffed his little chest out. His chest was like the mouse's back, warm orange.
"This will scare you," she said. "You strike from here towards the sun and you can't miss it. It throws a shadow at you."
"I'm off," said Bartimæus, and straightway started burrowing.
The Harvest Mouse stood up full length, and watched his ripple fading into distance. Then she dropped down to earth.
"That was a quite nice Mole," she said, "it really is a pity."
A surface run is child's play to a Mole. He bores it almost at his surface pace. The roof springs ready-moulded from his back, and lengthens like a paid-out rope behind him.
The fence was reached so suddenly that Bartimæus stubbed his nose against it. He bit and tore it, thinking it was root, then, finding it too hard for him—it was red teak—worked ten yards back and thrust his head and shoulders above ground.
The Harvest Mouse stood up full length