There was something, however, which Red Squirrel had not thought about. With a young fox, or with any young animal, there is usually a mother. The annoying little nut eater had one glimpse of a red streak flinging itself at him from behind, then in a fright he lost his footing on the low limb, fell into the bushes, and had to run with all his might to get up the next tree without being punished. Very quiet after that, he let the foxes trot off unmolested.
CHAPTER IV
OTHER WOODSFOLK
The mother led the way towards the nest under the fallen tree, but was stopped in the old path by the sound of a man’s footsteps. Quickly she slipped into the bushes. The pup was not sure what to do. However, when he saw Farmer Ben’s friend, John, stalking down the path, he scrambled out of the way in a hurry.
“Well, if there isn’t Ben’s little sharp-nosed fox!” muttered the man in surprise. “Ben’s fox! Ha, ha. I should like to see Ben catch him now!” He saw how wonderfully the wild little animal melted away among the shadows, then he stalked off with many a shake of the head as he thought of his chickens at home.
Everyone he met after that had to be told the good joke about the den and Ben’s sharp-nosed fox, so the story spread, and “Ben’s fox” became for a time the special joy of all the village gossips, who liked Ben none too well. Those whom he had angered with sly bargains in the past, said that he himself was like a cunning fox—a black one; so it was a fox against a fox. “Black Ben against Red Ben,” someone of doubtful wit expressed it. This amused a number of the boys, and at once gave the little red fox a nickname. Through all his later career he was known as Red Ben.
When people good naturedly teased Ben Slown, who never could enjoy a joke on himself, he grew more and more surly. He soon saw that, until he caught the foxes, he would always be plagued, especially when someone lost a chicken. So he began to scheme and set more traps. He had always hated foxes, but never more bitterly than now.
With little suspicion of this, the mother was teaching Red Ben the tricks that every wise fox must know. Night after night they hunted mice together, or lay in wait for fat muskrats in the swamp, or chased big Bun or the other cottontail rabbits.
Often they played in the moonlight and wrestled and rolled by the hour in a sandy hillock near the Ridge. Both thoroughly enjoyed this. The usual game was a mock fight. The mother would rush at the pup and roll him head over heels, then hold him to the ground while he tried with all his might to break away. Sometimes she would pretend to bite a foot or a leg, or to tear an ear, he meanwhile striving to protect himself.
At first she was very careful not to hurt him, but as he grew stronger he also gained a wonderful quickness which often surprised the mother, whose own motions, although almost like lightning, were soon no match for his. Then the games became wildly exciting. The pup could escape the old fox’s rushes, and himself nip and worry and trip and get away, and then roll over and over with her, in a lightning battle to get the throat-hold which ended every game.
All this was splendid training for Red Ben. He could practice all kinds of fighting tricks and learn how to deal with an animal larger and stronger than himself. Had his little brothers lived to be his playmates, he might never have had this experience, which meant so much to him later on.