gurgled and dimpled across the pool, and slipped away silently
under the lower edge of ice undisturbed by strings of silver
bubbles. The ice caverns were all dark and silent. The mink had
stolen the fish heads, and there was no trace anywhere to show
that it was Keeonekh's banquet hall.

The swimming power of an otter, which was so evident there in the
winter pool, is one of the most remarkable things in nature. All
other animals and birds, and even the best modeled of modern
boats, leave more or less wake behind them when moving through
the water. But Keeonekh leaves no more trail than a fish. This is
partly because he keeps his body well submerged when swimming,
partly because of the strong, deep, even stroke that drives him
forward. Sometimes I have wondered if the outer hairs of his
coat--the waterproof covering that keeps his fur dry, no matter
how long he swims--are not better oiled than in other animals,
which might account for the lack of ripple. I have seen him go
down suddenly and leave absolutely no break in the surface to
show where he was. When sliding also, plunging down a twenty-foot
clay bank, he enters the water with an astonishing lack of noise
or disturbance of any kind.

In swimming at the surface he seems to use all four feet, like
other animals. But below the surface, when chasing fish, he uses
only the fore-paws. The hind legs then stretch straight out
behind and are used, with the heavy tail, for a great rudder. By
this means he turns and doubles like a flash, following surely
the swift dartings of frightened trout, and beating them by sheer
speed and nimbleness.