Leon’s eyes were beady with malicious triumph. His breath came in short excited puffs. So did the terrier’s. It boded ill for the tormented chipmunk cowering at the farthest end of the desecrated hole.
“Hullo! that’s two against one and it isn’t fair play. Quit it!” suddenly burst forth a ringing boyish voice. “The chip’ was faster than the dog—he ought to have an even chance for his life, anyhow!”
Leon, crouching by the hole, looked up in petrified amazement. It was Nixon Warren, the stranger to these woods, who spoke. The tormentor broke into an insulting laugh.
“Eh—what’s the matter with you, Chicken-heart?” he sneered. “None o’ your business whether it’s fair or not!”
A flash leaped from the gray eyes under Nixon’s broad hat that defied the sneer applied to him. His chest heaved under the Khaki shirt with whose metal buttons a sunbeam played winsomely, while with defiant vehemence Leon worked his probing stick deeper, deeper into the hole where the mite of a chipmunk shrank before the cruel goad that would ultimately force it forth to meet the whirlwind of the dog’s attack.
Colin and Coombsie held their breath, feeling as if they could see the trembling “chipping” fugitive pressed against the farthest wall of its enlarged retreat.
Another minute, and out it must pop to death.
But upon the dragging, prodding seconds of that minute broke again the voice of the chipmunk’s champion—hot and ringing.
“Quit that!” it exploded. “Stop wiggling the stick in the hole—or I’ll make you!”