Mr. Fox had a harder time than he expected getting the soap from Mr. Man’s, for Mr. Dog had gone to sleep right in the doorway of the barn, and that was where Mr. Fox wanted to go.
He had seen a piece of white soap on a box in the barn one day, where Mr. Man had been washing his best harness, and he hoped very much he would find it there now.
After a while Mr. Dog awoke and went away and Mr. Fox crept in. He was lucky enough to find the soap, and off he ran for Tim Coon’s house just as the sun was going down.
“I risked a good deal, Tim, to get this soap,” he said. “I do not like to go over the hill in the daytime—too risky.
“Now we must put the trousers in a pail,” explained Mr. Fox, “and then very slowly pour the water on them. Are you sure the water is boiling hard?”
Tim said he was, and so Mr. Fox told him to bring it along, and as Tim poured it in the pail Mr. Fox shaved up the soap and dropped it in.
“Now get me a stick,” he said, “so I can stir it and make a good suds, and now I will leave you, for I am sure you can do the rest, and I must get home, as it is getting dark.
“All you have to do is to let them soak overnight and take them out in the morning and hang them in the sun, and if that recipe for washing woolen is good for anything your trousers will be as good as new.”
Off ran Mr. Fox for home, chuckling to himself all the way. “Yes, they will be as good as new,” he said, “but not for you to wear, my friend Tim. They may fit a very young coon, but not a full-grown-up coon like you. Oh no.”
Poor Tim Coon viewed his trousers as they hung on the line the next day with a sinking heart, for the black stain of the paint was of course still to be seen, but later when they were dry and he tried to put them on it was not a feeling of sadness which came over him. It was anger.