They reached the little place about ten o’clock and made their way up through the snow to Amos Grice’s store, where they found the proprietor sitting beside the stove, munching crackers from the barrel, just as they had last seen him.
“Howdy, boys!” he greeted them. “Come to pay me a call? Sit down and make yourselves at home. Help yourselves to the crackers. I keep ’em here to sell, but somehow it seems I never sell any, although the barrel keeps gettin’ empty all the time just the same. I’ve been always intendin’ to put a cover on that there barrel but I just can’t seem to get around to it.”
“We found our supplies, Mr. Grice,” Frank told him.
“You found ’em, eh? Where were they?”
“Somebody had hidden them on us, as a joke.”
“Just this mornin’ I was thinkin’ about you lads,” said Amos Grice. “There’s been a couple of thieves around here, too, and I was wonderin’ if it was the same ones that swiped your supplies.”
“Thieves!” exclaimed Chet.
“Yep. They paid me a visit last night. Stole a lot of my chickens.”
The boys looked at one another. Amos Grice laughed. “Not the kind of thieves you’re thinkin’ about,” he remarked. “These ain’t two-legged thieves. Four-legged ones. They mighty near cleaned out my hen-house. Seven fine fat chickens I lost.”
“Foxes?” ventured Joe.