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 he kept his counsel. Bud also told no one that he had trapped Redcoat and been outwitted by him.

Thus it happened that in the Autumn of which I write the Meadowdale Fox Club went into solemn conclave and mapped out a campaign which it was confidently predicted would put that much coveted brush upon the walls of the clubroom along with other trophies of the chase.

Two days before Thanksgiving the first snow had fallen, and it was an unprecedented storm, for the time of year. When the great feathery flakes finally ceased to sift down upon mother earth, fifteen inches of soft wet snow covered the ground. It furnished a condition that made fox hunting ideal. That is, it was ideal for men and dogs, but very hard for the poor fox. The long legged hounds could run easily in the deep snow, compared with the fox who is very susceptible to wet snow and who prefers to run upon a thick crust or on a hard surface. The pines and spruces were loaded to the breaking point with the new