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INGTAIL, the old gray fox, whose plumy brush was strangely barred with black, sat on his haunches just within the thicket's edge and calmly surveyed the situation. He found it not altogether satisfactory. As usual, twenty or thirty buxom white hens were moving about on the lawn in front of the house. But they were all well out in the open, too far away for the fox to attempt a raid. Moreover, on the front steps of the house stood the boy talking with his father; and the boy, clad in khaki shirt and corduroys, held his shotgun in the hollow of his arm. Evidently he was going hunting this morning and was ready for action.

Ringtail had considerable respect for the boy as a hunter and woodsman. He knew Chad Stanton well, having watched him often in the woods; and possibly he was aware—for a fox is often wise as well as cunning—that Chad knew something about him, too, and would welcome a chance to test the thickness of his hide. It was not a fox hunt that the boy was planning, for Ringtail saw no horse and no dogs. Nevertheless, the old fox decided