“Oh!” protested the Babe politely.  It did not seem to him quite right that Uncle Andy should be regarded lightly, even by an otter.

“Well, you know, I wasn’t of much account.  I was neither dangerous, like Jim Cringle, nor good to eat, like a muskrat or a pickerel.  So I don’t appear any more in this yarn.  If you find yourself wondering how I came to know about some of the things I’m going to tell you, just make believe I got it from the chickadee, who is the most confidential little chap in the world, or from the whisky-Jack, who makes a point, as you may have observed, of knowing everybody else’s business.”

“Or from Jim Cringle?” inquired the Babe demurely.

But Uncle Andy only frowned.  He always discouraged the Babe’s attempts at raillery.

“The two Little Furry Ones,” he continued, after pressing down the tobacco in his pipe, “were born in a dry, warm, roomy den in the bank, under the roots of an old birch that slanted out over the water.  The front door was deep under water.  But as the old otters had few enemies to dread, being both brave and powerful, they had also a back entrance on dry land, hidden by a thicket of fir bushes.  The two furry ‘pups’ were at first as sprawling and helpless as newborn kittens, though of course a good deal bigger than any kittens you have ever seen.  And being so helpless, their father and mother never left them alone.  One always stayed with them while the other went away to hunt trout or muskrat.”

“Why, what could get at them in there?” interrupted the Babe.

“You see,” explained Uncle Andy graciously, “either a fox or a weasel might come in by the back door—­if they were hungry enough to take the risk.  Or what was much more likely, that slim, black, murderous robber, the mink, might come swimming in by the front entrance, pop his narrow, cruel head above the water, see the youngsters alone, and be at their throats in a twinkling.  The old otters, who were very devoted parents, were not running any risks like that, I can tell you.”

“I guess not!” agreed the Babe, wagging his head wisely.

“Well,” went on Uncle Andy, “just because those level-headed old otters were always ready for it, nothing happened.  You’d better make a note of that.  If you are always ready for trouble when the other fellow makes it, he will be pretty shy about beginning.  That’s why the foxes and the weasels and the minks never came around.

“When the Little Furry Ones were about the size of five months’ kittens they were as handsome a pair of youngsters as you are ever likely to set eyes upon.  Their fur, rich and soft and dark, was the finest ever seen.  Like their parents, they had bodies shaped for going through the water at a tremendous speed—­built like a bulldog’s for strength, and like an eel’s for suppleness.”

“Not slimy!” protested the Babe, who had hated eels whole-heartedly ever since the day when he had tried to take one off the hook.