Almost directly after, as we were clambering over a steep slope, Uncle Bob stopped short, and stood there sniffing.
“What is it?” I cried.
“Fox,” he said, looking round.
“Nonsense!” cried Uncle Dick.
“You wouldn’t find, eh? What a nasty, dank, sour odour!” cried Uncle Jack, in his quiet, thoughtful way.
“A fox has gone by here during the last few minutes, I’m sure,” cried Uncle Bob, looking round searchingly. “I’ll be bound to say he is up among those tufts of ling and has just taken refuge there. Spread out and hunt.”
The tufts he pointed to were right on a ridge of the hill we were climbing, and separating we hurried up there just in time to see a little reddish animal, with long, drooping, bushy tail, run in amongst the heath fifty yards down the slope away to our left.
“That’s the consequence of having a good nose,” said Uncle Bob triumphantly; and now, as we were on a high eminence, we took a good look round so as to make our plans.
“Hadn’t we better turn back now?” said Uncle Jack. “We shall have several hours’ walk before we get to Arrowfield, and shall have done as much as Cob can manage.”
“Oh, I’m not a bit tired!” I cried.