I poked a finger into the water and licked it. "Tastes odd," said I,
"brackish or salt or something."

"We've uncorked the blooming Atlantic, that's what," said Albert
Edward; "cork it up again quickly or it'll bob up and swamp us." That
done, we looked about for something that would stand digging into. The
only thing we could find was a molehill, so we delved our way into
that. We are residing in it now, Albert Edward, Maurice and I. We have
called it "_Mon Repos_," and stuck up a notice saying we are inside,
otherwise visitors would walk over it and miss us.

The chief drawback to "_Mon Repos_" is Maurice. Maurice is the
proprietor by priority, a mole by nature. Our advent has more or less
driven him into the hinterland of his home and he is most unpleasant
about it. He sits in the basement and sulks by day, issuing at night
to scrabble about among our boots, falling over things and keeping us
awake. If we say "Boo! Shoo!" or any harsh word to him he doubles
up the backstairs to the attic and kicks earth over our faces at
three-minute intervals all night.

Albert Edward says he is annoyed about the rent, but I call that
absurd. Maurice is perfectly aware that there is a war on, and to
demand rent from soldiers who are defending his molehill with their
lives is the most ridiculous proposition I ever heard of. As I said
before, the situation is most unpleasant, but I don't see what we can
do about it, for digging out Maurice means digging down "_Mon Repos_,"
and there's no sense in that. Albert Edward had a theory that the
mole is a carnivorous animal, so he smeared a worm with carbolic
tooth-paste and left it lying about. It lay about for days. Albert now
admits his theory was wrong; the mole is a vegetarian, he says; he was
confusing it with trout. He is in the throes of inventing an explosive
potato for Maurice on the lines of a percussion grenade, but in the
meanwhile that gentleman remains in complete mastery of the situation.

The balloon attached to our back garden is very tame. Every morning
its keepers lead it forth from its abode by strings, tie it to a
longer string and let it go. All day it remains aloft, tugging gently
at its leash and keeping an eye on the War. In the evening the keepers
appear once more, haul it down and lead it home for the night. It
reminds me for all the world of a huge docile elephant being bossed
about by the mahout's infant family. I always feel like giving the
gentle creature a