Amos Grice nodded.
“Foxes! A couple of ’em raided the hen roost last night and made off with seven chickens and I never even caught a sight of ’em at it. If I only had time to leave the store I’d certainly set out after ’em. Still, they may come back, and if they do they’ll find me settin’ up waitin’ for ’em with a shotgun.”
“Perhaps they have a den just outside the village,” Biff said.
“I know they have. I ain’t the first man to lose chickens here this winter.”
“Did they leave any tracks?” asked Frank.
“Plenty of ’em. Come with me and I’ll show you.”
Amos Grice led the way out of the store toward the hen-house in the back yard. A few chickens, the only ones remaining of the flock, were pecking at some grain. The old storekeeper showed the boys two distinct trails in the snow, leading away from the hen-house, up toward the hill at the back of the store.
“That’s the way they went,” he said. “With my chickens. I tell you, I had a mighty good mind to close up the store and start after ’em right away. I’d like to get a shot at the rascals.”
“Joe and I have a couple of small rifles down in the ice-boats,” Frank said. “Perhaps we could try our hand at shooting the foxes.”
“Good idea!” approved Chet. “I wish I had a rifle.”