ll of delightful suggestion on
such a night:

Tonk tank tenk tink
Ta tink a tonk a tank a tink a
Ta ta tink tank ta ta tonk tink
Drink a tank a drink a drunk.

It was the 'water-dripping' song of the saw-whet owl.

But suddenly a deep raucous breathing and a rustle of leaves showed that
Ranger was back.

He was completely fagged out. His tongue hung almost to the ground and
was dripping with foam, his flanks were heaving and spume-flecks
dribbled from his breast and sides. He stopped panting a moment to give
my hand a dutiful lick, then flung himself flop on the leaves to drown
all other sounds with his noisy panting. But again that tantalizing
'_Yap yurrr_' was heard a few feet away, and the meaning of it all
dawned on me.

We were close to the den where the little foxes were, and the old ones
were taking turns in trying to lead us away.

It was late night now, so we went home feeling sure that the problem was
nearly solved.

II

It was well known that there was an old fox with his family living in
the neighborhood, but no one supposed them so near.

This fox had been called 'Scarface,' because of a scar reaching from his
eye through and back of his ear; this was supposed to have been given
him by a barbed-wire fence during a rabbit hunt, and as the hair came in
white after it healed, it was always a strong mark.

The winter before I had met with him and had had a sample of his
craftiness. I was out shooting, after a fall of snow, and had crossed
the open fields to the edge of the brushy hollow back of the old mill.
As my head rose to a view of the hollow I caught sight of a fox trotting
at long range down the other side, in line to cross my course. Instantly
I held motionless, and did not even lower or turn my head lest I should
catch his eye by moving, until he went on out of sight in the thick
cover at the bottom. As soon as he was hidden I bobbed down and ran to
head him off where he should leave the cover on the other side, and was
there in good time awaiting, but no fox came forth. A careful took
showed the fresh track of a fox that had bounded from the cover, and
following it with my eye I saw old Scarface himself far out of range
behind me, sitting on his haunches and grinning as though much amused.

A study of the trail made all clear. He had seen me at the moment I saw
him, but he, also like a true hunter, had concealed the fact, putting on
an air of unconcern till