“Do you fancy they will attack us?” questioned Andy.
“I don’t know what they will do. They want the bear, that’s certain.”
“If we only had a good campfire that would keep them at a distance.”
“Yes, but there is nothing here with which to build a fire.”
“Supposing we give ’em a dose of shot?” suggested Chet.
“You can try it.”
Chet had the shotgun, and taking careful aim at the pack of foxes, he fired. The flash of the firearm was followed by a wild yelp from the animals, and three leaped up, and then fell on the ice badly wounded. The others of the pack retreated for a few minutes, then came back to their former position, barking more loudly than ever.
“They are certainly game,” said Mr. Dawson. “Killing off a few of them don’t scare the others.”
“What are we to do?” asked Chet, dubiously. He had fancied the foxes would disappear at the discharge of the shotgun—for that was what foxes usually did down in Maine.
“We’ll do our best to stand them off until it grows lighter,” answered Barwell Dawson.