Now Dick’s wife had helped us to bring up the tools, and hung around to watch the sport—­an ugly, apathetic woman, with hair like a horse’s tail bound in a yellow rag, a man’s hips, and a skirt of old sacking.  I think there was no love lost between her and Dick, because she had borne him no children.  Anyway, while Dick and I were busy, digging like niggers and listening like Indians—­for Meg didn’t bark, not being trained to the work, and all we could hear was a thud, thud now and then, and the hard breathing of the grapple—­all of a sudden the old hag spoke, for the first time that day—­

“S’trewth, but I’ve gripped!”

Looking up, I saw her stretched along the side of the turf, with her head resting on the lip of the badger’s hole and her right arm inside, up to the arm-pit.  Without speaking again, she began to work her body back, like a snake, the muscles swelling and sinking from shoulder to flank in small waves.  She had the strength of a horse.  Inch by inch she pulled back, while we dug around the mouth of the hole, filling her mouth and eyes with dirt, until her arm came to light, then the tongs she held; and then Dick spat out a mighty oath—­

“It’s the dog she’s got!”

So it was.  The woman had hold of Meg all the time, and the game little brute had held on to the badger.  Also the badger had held her, and when at last his hold slipped, she was a gruesome sight.  She looked round, reproachfully, shook the earth out of her eyes and went in again without a sound.  And Dick picked up a clod and threw it in his wife’s face, between the eyes.  She cursed him, in a perfunctory way, and walked off, down the wood, to look after her stew.

But now, Meg having pinned her enemy again, we soon dug them out:  and I held the sack while Dick took the badger by the tail and dropped him in.  His teeth snapped, a bare two inches from my left hand, as he fell.  After a short rest, he was despatched.  The method need not be described.  It was somewhat crude, and in fact turned me not a little sick.

“One o’clock,” Dick observed, glancing up at the sun, and resuming his care of Meg.  “What’re ye trying to do, youngster?”

“Trying to put on paper what a badger’s like when he’s dead.  If only I had colours—­”

“My son, there’s a kind of man afflicted with an itch to put all he sees on paper.  What’s the use?  Fifty men might sit down and write what the grey of a badger’s like; and they can’t, because there’s no words for it.  All they can say is that ’tis badger’s-grey—­which means nought to a man that hasn’t seen one; and a man that has don’t want to be told.  Same with your pencils and paints.  Cast your head back and look up—­how deep can you see into the sky?”

“Miles.”

“Ay, and every mile shining to the eye.  I’ve seen pictures in my time, but never one that made a dab of paint look a mile deep.  Besides, why draw a thing when you can lie on your back and look up at it?”