“We didn’t expect to blunder into a fox-hunt when we left the cabin this morning, did we?” said Joe, when the village was out of sight behind them.
“I’ll say we didn’t,” returned his brother. “This beats ice-boating all hollow.”
“It will, if Chet will keep from pointing that gun in my direction,” said Biff. “He has already tried to kill me once this morning.”
Chet, blushing, reversed the weapon, which he had been carrying in a highly dangerous position, with the barrel pointing toward the other members of the party.
They went down into a gully extending several hundred yards to the west, following the tracks that led along the bottom of the ravine, then turned sharply up the slope again toward a thicket of trees. Here and there they could see flecks of blood on the snow.
“That’s from the chickens,” Frank said, as they strode along.
Suddenly the dog became very active. Reaching the top of the slope, he plunged along in a swift run and soon disappeared among the trees. Then they heard him howling with excitement.
“He’s found them!” shouted Chet.
The boys hastened on. When they overtook the dog they found him frantically raising clouds of snow as he dug among some rocks in the depth of the thicket. He had found the den.
The boys knew little or nothing about the habits of foxes, but they reflected that the dog would be scarcely making such a clamor unless the animals were at home. They waited, rifles in readiness.