“A small bullet. It was no large rifle bullet,” said Neale confidently. “I should think it was no more than a twenty-two caliber.”
“Pshaw! that’s only a play-toy,” returned the old man. “Who’d have a gun like that up here in the woods? Guess you’re mistook, young feller.”
“When you come up to the house you take a look at the fox,” said Neale.
“I’ll do that. Where’d the feller stand when he shot the fox?”
“Why,” put in Agnes, as Neale hesitated, “we couldn’t find his footprints at all.”
“Humph!” muttered the old fellow.
He poured out the coffee. The cups were deep, thick, and had no handles. He poured his own into the deep saucer, blew it noisily, and sipped it in great, scalding gulps. Agnes tried not to give this operation any attention.
Neale meanwhile was examining several fine skins hung upon the log walls. There was a wolf skin among them, and a big, black bear robe was flung over the lower bunk for warmth.
“I got him,” said the woodsman, “five year ago. He was in a berry patch over against the mountain, yonder. And he was as fat as butter.”
“And the wolf?” asked Agnes, with considerable interest.