THE TUNNEL RUNNERS 209 



douche slipped in upon him. Startled and 

 choking, he darted up the steep slope of his 

 gallery, and out into the wet turmoil. He 

 was an expert swimmer, but he liked to 

 choose his own time for the exercise of his 

 skill. This was not one of the times. For 

 one second he sat up upon his sturdy little 

 haunches, squeaking angrily and surveying 

 the excitement. Then, shaking his fur free 

 of the few drops of water which clung to 

 it in tiny globules, he joined the scurry- 

 ing migrant throngs which were swarming 

 through the dyke. 



Along the dyke-top the migrants were 

 running the gauntlet with death. With the 

 first invasion of the tide across the flats, all 

 the marsh-hawks of the neighbourhood 

 some four or five had gathered to the hunt, 

 knowing well just what the flood would do 

 for them. Also many crows had come. At 

 intervals along the crest of the dyke stood 

 the hawks, with wings half spread, screaming 

 excitedly, clutching at their victims and 

 devouring them with unlordly haste. Two, 

 already gorged, were flapping away heavily 

 towards the forest-clad inland ridges, carrying 

 limp trophies in their talons. As for the 

 crows, there were perhaps two score of them, 

 all cawing noisily, flying low along the crest 



