Red Ben, the Fox of Oak Ridge

by Joseph Wharton Lippincott

That reminded Ben of his troubles. He threw his rifle to his shoulder, only to find that at his first movement the pup had vanished in the burrow.

“Shucks! You little varmint!” he muttered. “We’ll get you all right. Up with the shovel, John, and let’s see dirt fly. Remember though, when we get the pups, that sharp faced one must be mine. He thinks he’s smart.”

Friend John took off his coat and dug with a will, while Ben sat on the wheat sack they had brought along to put the pups in. Both became greatly excited at actually having the young red foxes in their power. After the friend had dug a long while he looked inquiringly at Ben.

“When are you going to do a little digging yourself, Ben?” he asked suspiciously. Ben saw that the end was nearly reached, so took up the shovel with a laugh. The bag he stuffed well into the burrow to stop it up and to keep any fox from dashing out.

Meanwhile the four pups were cowering against the wall of earth at the very end of their home. Three were in one corner and the inquisitive one in another, all listening to the shovel coming nearer and nearer. Every time it jarred on a stone, the shivers ran up and down their spines; but they could do nothing, the burrow had no outlet besides the one the men were in.

Ben had a very healthy fear of being bitten; therefore the sight of the first little fox unnerved him completely. He knew that all of them were lightning quick, like bombshells on four legs. But Ben was cunning. He quickly thought out an elaborate plan of capture.

First of all he threw several shovels of earth over them, and pushed it in solidly so that they were buried tight. After that they could not move until Ben’s big hand picked them out by the scruff of the neck, one at a time.

The first poor, scared little fellow glared and kicked, but was somehow stuffed into the empty wheat sack. Two more followed him in the same way. Then the exultant farmer felt all around in the earth for more, and found none. He dug a little and felt around again. His hand slipped along the flank of the last pup, the inquisitive one that had crawled into a far corner of the den.

Suspicious at once, Ben poked a little farther. Had the little fox growled or moved an inch, or even trembled, he would have been discovered. But the loose, cold earth was mixed with his fur and his body was as rigid as the side of the burrow. Ben’s fingers at last moved on and the danger was past.

“Have you really got them all?” the other man asked.