At this the mole gave a little squeak, and jumped quite out of Tommy Smith’s hand, and then he began to burrow into the ground as fast as he could, and this was very fast indeed, so that before Tommy Smith had got over his surprise, he was almost out of sight. “Oh, Mr. Mole,” he cried, “do come back!” but the mole was very angry, and would not consent to for some time.
“If I do,” he said at last, “you must promise me never to talk in that way again.”
“Oh, I never will,” said Tommy Smith. “I quite forgot who I was talking to.”
“Moleskin waistcoats, indeed!” said the mole. “I think the people who wear them are very wicked people. They never think how many poor little moles must be killed only to make one. I hope you have never worn a waistcoat like that?”
“Oh no,” answered Tommy Smith, “I never have. Nobody has ever given me one.”
“I hope you never will,” said the mole; “for if you do, you will be almost as wicked a man as a mole-catcher, and he is the wickedest person I know of.”
“A mole-catcher!” cried Tommy Smith; “then are there men who catch moles?”
“Oh yes, indeed there are,” said the mole. “There are men who do that and nothing else.”
“How do they do it?” asked Tommy Smith.