On the second such night they went to Larch Hill. The soil there is dry and sandy, and it is a pleasant place—cool in summer and warm in winter—and, wherever the wind stirs, the supple larches bend before it, and nod and whisper mysteriously among themselves. Here there was an empty rabbit burrow, and Stubbs poked in his nose, and snuffled. Grunter shouldered him aside and crawled in until only her shaggy hind-quarters appeared. Then she began to dig, and a continuous shower of sand spurted out between her hind-legs. When the heap bid fair to block her in altogether, she backed awkwardly, shovelling it out as she came. This was Stubbs' chance. He lumbered into the cavity, and scraped likewise until his coat was full of dust. Grunter tried to press in after him, but a well-directed kick sent her sprawling upon her broad back, and she was obliged to wait outside until her mate was tired. So they worked alternately, until a most respectable tunnel had been driven under the larch trees.
Meanwhile, however, the herons flew in from the bogs, full cropped after the night's fishing, and the morning wind was heavy with the scent of elder flowers. The caverns of shadow around began to resolve themselves into cool green arcades, and the woodcock croaked during their aerial rompings overhead. The larks sang up on the hill, and the wood birds answered with a blast of song. The badgers were tired and dusty and sleepy. Grunter crept into the half-completed 'earth'; and Stubbs, after pausing to lick his sore pads, followed her. They lay down with grunts of content, snout to snout, stomachs upwards, and in two minutes were snoring comfortably. That was their house-warming.
CHAPTER II
BORRIGAN'S BAITING
'Get out, ye baste!' growled Marky Borrigan, shaking the sack he carried over the mouth of a barrel. There was a stifled grunt, a struggle, and a grey bundle fell into the cask with a thud.
'Shure, we have him all safe,' said Borrigan, with a grin.
