The polecat stood quite still, with his long back arched, his sturdy, short forepaws anchored tense, and his short, rounded ears alert, and watched it come, not because he wanted to, but because there did not happen to be any cover thereabouts, and to move might give him away.

When he saw that the beast was long and low, and short-legged and flat-beaded, his long outer fur began to bristle.  Those outlines were the trade-marks of his own tribe—­not his own species only—­and were, he knew, more likely to mean tough trouble than anything else.  Then he realized that the path of the new arrival would take it right towards him, and that was bad, because to move now and get out of the way was hopeless.  Also, he could see the size of the beast now, and that was worse than bad—­some ten inches to a foot worse.

The beast held a wild-duckling in its jaws, and the little body, with its stuck-out webbed feet, flapped and flopped dismally from side to side, as the animal cantered along with a somewhat shuffling, undulating gait.  And then the polecat became transfixed.  He had recognized the new-comer.  He knew the breed, and would have given a lot not to have molested that redshank’s abode and be found there.

The strange beast—­palpably a large, sinuous, and wicked proposition—­came right up to the polecat, standing there rigid, erect, motionless, and alone in the moonlight, with the fourth egg between his paws, and then stopped dead, almost touching him.  Apparently, it saw him for the first time.  Certainly it was not pleased; it said so under its breath, in a low growl.

The polecat said nothing, perhaps because he had nothing to say.

The beast was an otter, and an old one.  Also, it appeared to be suffering from a “grouch.”

The polecat felt uncomfortable.  He was eyeing the other’s throat, and marking just the place where he meant to take hold, if things came to the worst; but he knew all the time that the otter, although its eyes had never been removed for a fraction of a second off his face, was really watching the egg.  The otter was a female; probably she had young to feed; the presence of the duckling darkly hinted at it.  If so, so much the worse for the polecat.

Then the otter put down her duckling, and growled again; but the polecat might have been carved in unbarked oak for all the sign of life that he gave.  Then—­she sailed in.

It was really very neatly and prettily done, for, as an exponent of lithesome agility, the otter is—­when the pine-marten is not by—­certainly quite It.  The polecat seemed to side-twist double, making some sort of lightning-play with his long neck and body as she came, and—­he got his hold.  Yes, he got his hold all right.  The only thing was to stay there; for, as he was a polecat and a member of the great, the famous, weasel tribe, part of his fighting creed was to stay there.

When, however, hounds fail to puncture an otter’s hide, any beast might be pardoned for losing its grip; but he did not.  Between the tame hounds’ fangs and his smaller wild ones was some difference—­about the difference between our teeth and a savage’s, multiplied once or twice; and the old she-otter, who had felt hounds’ teeth in her life, realized the difference.  Also, it hurt, and the polecat did not lose his hold.