Tommy Smith could not see why cats should be poor things because they didn’t burrow, but the mole seemed quite sure of it, and he did not like to contradict him. “I suppose, Mr. Mole,” he said, “that you are made for burrowing.”
“Yes, I am,” said the mole, “and I can do it better than any other animal in the world. You see, I have a pair of spades to help me, and I dig with both of them at the same time.”
“A pair of spades!” cried Tommy Smith in surprise. “Why, where are they? I don’t see them.”
“Where are they?” said the mole; “why, here they are, to be sure,” and he stretched out his two little front feet, and moved them about.
“Ah, now I see what you mean,” said Tommy Smith, and he bent down his head and began to look at them more closely.
The mole might well have called his feet spades, for they were shaped something like them, and he used them to dig with,—which is what spades are used for. They were short and broad, with five little toes, and each toe had a very strong claw at the end of it. These funny little feet stuck out on each side of the mole’s body, and they were so very close to the body that they looked as if they had been sewn on to it. There did not seem to be any leg belonging to them at all. Of course there were legs, and very strong ones too, but they were so short, and so hidden under the skin, that Tommy Smith could not see them, although he felt them directly. The hind legs and feet were much smaller, and not nearly so strong, which, the mole said, was because they had not so much work to do. Between them there was a very short tail, just long enough, Tommy Smith thought, to take hold of and lift the mole up by. But he did not do this, in case he should be offended. “Well,” said the mole, after Tommy Smith had looked at him for a little while, “what do you think of me? I hope you think me handsome.”
“Yes, I think you are,” Tommy Smith answered, though he did not feel quite sure of this. “At anyrate, your fur is handsome, for it is like velvet.”
“Yes,” said the mole; “and, do you know, I am sometimes called the little gentleman in the black velvet coat.”
“It is not quite black,” said Tommy Smith. “There is a greyish colour in it too. I think it would look very pretty if it was made into something. Oh, Mr. Mole,” he cried all of a sudden, “now I remember that I have heard people talk about moleskin waistcoats!”