Most of Andrew’s deep thinking was done in the wooden arm-chair by his own fireside. There he is seated, the evening after his interview with Sir Bevil by the cover, considering the plan of campaign against the badger. The only sound in the room is the click of his grandchild’s knitting-needles. Vennie lies curled up on the floor at his feet. The light of the lamp falls on the Earthstopper’s face, and betrays its absent expression. He is wandering in thought over the moors and hills around Kenidzhek, and wondering which of the many earths he knows of, is the white badger’s. By careful examination, he will find sooner or later a few white bristles on the walls of one of them, which will give him the necessary clue. Should this plan fail, he will propose watching the earths, and will request the Squire to let him do so alone, lest the secret should leak out. Harrowing will his vigils be in that weird district; but his fear of ridicule is greater than his fear of ghosts, and he would rather have his grey hairs blanched with fright than become the laughing-stock of the countryside.

“I hope thee’st nawthin’ troublin’ ee, granfer?” said the girl, who had been casting anxious glances from time to time at the old man.

“No, no, my dear, only I dropped across a badger laast night, and I’ve bin thinkin’ how I might come by hes eearth: I’m to see the Squire about et furst thing in the mornin’.”

“But badgers are plenty enuf, granfer, I daresay Vennie could find wan in a few minits ef you were to turn her out on the moor.”

“Iss, iss, my dear, grey badgers es plenty enuf as you say, too plenty for me, the varmints; but ’twas a white wan I seed.”

“A white wan, granfer?”

“Iss, a white wan; surely thee dosn’t misdoubt me, Ravena?”

“No, no, granfer dear, I make no doubt thee didst see wan, and I do wish thee luck in catchen of un. You’ll dig it out, I s’pose?”

“Iss, iss, the Squire says theere’s only wan way of taakin’ a badger by fair play, and thet’s by diggin’ un out.”

“Then you must find where et’s earth es, and that may take a bra’ passel of time.”

“Ezackly so, the Squire may fret and fume, but theere, nawthin’ can be done till we knaw wheere et es. Now, my dear, let us be off upstairs for I’m tired.”

After kissing the child, he went to bed and slept soundly. He was early astir, lit the fire, as he always did when at home, and, whilst the kettle was boiling, fetched a pitcher of water from the spring, and some sods from the little turf-rick, for the day’s use. After breakfast he set out to lay his plans before the Squire. He had no doubt that they would be accepted, for he could see no alternative, and in matters of this kind the Squire had generally fallen in with his views. His surprise then at the sight that met his eyes as he entered the yard of the Castle may be imagined. The head keeper was seated in a wagonette in charge of three terriers; opposite him was a farmhand with a collection of picks and spades; whilst the coachman, holding the reins in one hand, was putting a sack in the boot with the other. “Well, well,” he muttered as he stood near the big gates like one frozen to the cobbles, “what in the world es the maanin’ of thes?” Impulsive he knew the Squire to be; but was there ever, thought he, such folly as all this preparation for digging out a badger without first knowing where it was? Granting he had seen a white badger, its holt might be almost anywhere within four miles of the Giant’s Quoit where he had found the footprints, and inside that radius he knew of at least two score of earths: and was it possible that the Squire could have said anything about the badger? These thoughts passed through the Earthstopper’s mind as he stood there resting on his blackthorn like one “mazed,” whilst the men in the trap exchanged winks, and wondered what ailed him. There was one thing he could do, and would do, no matter what the consequences: that was to see the Squire, and point out the absurdity of going on such an expedition.

“Anythin’ amiss wi’ ee, An’rew? arn’t ee going to jump up? et’s a quarter to nine and we’ve bin ready since half-past eight.”

Without replying to the keeper, he inquired rather sharply, “Wheere’s the Squire?”

“Ee’s gone along these two hours and eh left word as you was to follow on.”

This made the blood mount to his cheek; and for a moment he thought of going back home and having nothing to do with the business. But mastering this impulse he walked up to the trap without a word—his lips were too tightly compressed to say anything—and took his seat by the side of the coachman. In a short time the wagonette was rattling along a country lane leading to the St Just turnpike road.

“Wheere are ee drivin’ to, coachman?” said Andrew, by way of a feeler when he had found his tongue.

“My horders is to drive to William Trevaskis’ farm as lies under the ’Ooting Cairn.”

“What’s up to taake the Squire out so eearly?”

“Hi don’t know that I can tell ee, but be careful ’ow you speaks to ’im; ee’s that hexcited, you’d think he’d lost the blackbird with a white topknot.”

Andrew, who from the moment he had entered the stable-yard had been under the impression that everyone at the Castle must have heard about the white badger, would have been hopeful now that such was not the case, were it not for an otherwise unaccountable grin that puckered the coachman’s cheek and the singularly jaunty way in which he handled the whip. However, he kept his misgivings to himself, and whilst seemingly engaged in following the fresh tracks of a horse that had galloped along the side of the road that morning, was ransacking his brain to remember whether he had ever seen a badger’s earth on Cairn Kenidzhek. The fact is, he knew much less of the Hooting Cairn than of any hill to the westward of Crobben, nor could he call to mind a fox run to ground there. Had it been Mulfra, the Galver, Sancreed Beacon, Bartinney, or Chapel Cairn Brea, he could have walked straight to every holt on their rocky slopes. After nearly an hour’s drive the pile of weird-looking rocks shows plainly against the sky; a few minutes later the face of the hill comes in view and at its base Trevaskis’ house on the edge of a cultivated patch reclaimed many years ago from the moorland that stretches away to the northern cliffs. The sun catches Shellal’s tiny attic window, the leats where his springes are set, the pool beyond the broad belt of yellow reeds, and lights the white-crested waves of the sea.

When near enough, Andrew makes out the farmer in his shirt sleeves and then—can he believe his own eyes?—three, four, five miners against the turf-rick; Trevaskis is holding a tubbal in one hand and—yes, a furze-chopper in the other; picks and shovels are piled in front of the miners; Shellal is holding two buckets, no doubt containing water for the terriers; and, by all that’s good, it is a pair of badger-tongs that the Squire has just brought out of the house, his fingers fidgetin............