“What’s that, for the love of Mike?” spoke Tom.
“Blessed if I know,” retorted Phil. “I don’t see anything. Maybe it’s a snake.”
“It’s a fox, you chumps!” came from Sid. “Keep still, can’t you? I’ve got him just right. He can’t see me, and the wind is blowing from him to me. I’ll have his picture in a minute!”
But, as bad luck would have it, just as Sid was about to press the lever, releasing the shutter, Phil leaned too heavily on one foot. A stick broke under him with a snap, there was a sudden rustling in the bushes, and Sid uttered a cry of dismay.
“There he goes!” cried the naturalist. “What’s the matter with you fellows, anyhow? Can’t you keep still? Now it will take me an hour to trail him, and the chances are I can’t do it.”
“It wasn’t my fault,” explained Tom. “Phil did it.”
“I couldn’t help it,” came from the guilty one. “What do you want to photograph such scary things as foxes for, anyhow?”
“Humph!” was Sid’s exclamation. “Well, there’s no help for it. Come on.”
“Where?” inquired Tom.