CHAPTER XIX.
A SHREWD FOX.
Several years ago, when foxes were more numerous here than they are now, the writer, R. B., of Canada, in company with two other hunters, went on a fox hunting expedition. We had two dogs which had not been trained but would follow a trail pretty well. We had to travel over newly-made ice a distance of three miles to a small island about a mile long and quite narrow, on which were three small groves of fir trees which was the only cover for game, the surface of the island being chiefly meadow and marsh land. We landed on the eastern end of the island, and within a short time after the hunt began one of the party shot a fox, and in the afternoon the writer got a chance at a shot and succeeded in knocking over a very fine red fox. As night was now near we started for home, intending to return next day and renew the hunt, as we knew there was yet another fox on the island. Next day, however, was stormy, and we postponed the hunt till the following day, which being fine gave us a good chance for our work.
ALWAYS HUNGRY.
The same party of hunters and dogs renewed the chase early in the morning but the fox seemed to have learned a lesson from the previous hunt, and all day long he was chased from grove to grove by the dogs without giving a chance of a shot at him. As night was fast approaching we began to fear our hunt was going to be unsuccessful when we discovered that the fox had changed his tactics, and instead of taking shelter in the groves had run clear out to one end of the island, which was very narrow, and as we thought would take to the ice and thus get away from us. However, we followed after him, and you may imagine our surprise when the fox, instead of going on the ice, suddenly turned around and came directly toward us, and when about one hundred yards distant suddenly disappeared as if the earth had swallowed him up; one of the party who knew there was an old uncovered well there shouted out, "the fox is in the well!" We all hastened to the spot, and sure enough there was Mr. Fox in the well clinging to some sticks floating in the water about eight feet below the surface of the ground. As we had no rope or any facilities for getting reynard out of the well alive, we had to take a mean and unsportsmanlike advantage of our prisoner by putting a small charge of shot into his head and then fishing him out of the water with a forked stick. That the fox could never have gotten out of the well by his own exertions I do not believe, but that he went into it to escape from us is certain.