It must not be supposed that Isaac Mole was idle all this time.

He heard of the bold doings of his friends Harkaway, Harvey and
Jefferson, not to speak of the valuable aid of Nabley the detective,
and, figuratively speaking, his very soul panted for glory.

"I feel I could conquer by my single hand half-a-dozen brigands," said
Mole to himself; "but still I should prefer to come across a sleeping
brigand. But ah, me!" there he sighed deeply, "brigands are as rarely
caught asleep as weasels."

Poor old Mole's desire to distinguish himself in this matter was very
great.

The plain truth was that poor Isaac was at times badly henpecked.

On these occasions he would assume his most dignified deportment and
point to his wooden legs.

"There are proofs, Mrs. Mole," he would say, "that Isaac Mole never
shunned the foe in his life."

"Yah, yah!" his spouse would gracefully smile in reply, "dat no fault
ob yours, Ikey Mole; de ignorant critters took off your legs because
you so often lost your legs before."

"Lost them before?"

"Yes."