"Who is we?" asked Mr. Fox.

"All us diggers. That's me and Mole and Rabbit and all our wives and children. Even Weasel, who can usually sneak out of the tightest spots, is right now hiding down my hole with Mrs. Weasel and six kids. What on earth are we going to do, Foxy? I think we're finished!"

Mr. Fox looked at his three children and he smiled. The children smiled back at him, sharing his secret. "My dear old Badger," he said, "this mess you're in is all my fault…"

"I know it's your fault!" said Badger furiously. "And the farmers are not going to give up till they've got you. Unfortunately, that means us as well. It means everyone on the hill." Badger sat down and put a paw around his small son. "We're done for," he said softly. "My poor wife up there is so weak she can't dig another yard."

"Nor can mine," said Mr. Fox. "And yet at this very minute she is preparing for me and my children the most delicious feast of plump juicy chickens.."

"Stop!" cried Badger. "Don't tease me! I can't stand it!"

"It's true!" cried the Small Foxes. "Dad's not teasing! We've got chickens galore!"

"And because everything is entirely my fault," said Mr. Fox, "I invite you to share the feast. I invite everyone to share it—you and Mole and Rabbit and Weasel and all your wives and children. There'll be plenty to go round, I can assure you."

"You mean it?" cried Badger. "You really mean it?"

Mr. Fox pushed his face close to Badger's and whispered darkly, Do you know where we've just been?"

"Where?"

"Right inside Boggis's Chicken House Number One!"