Presently Tatters began to growl deeply and give what they had learned to designate as his animal bark, quite different in quality from that with which he announced the approach of man. Pam, of course, joined him, springing from the cushioned chair in which she slept.
The Cub went to the door and listened—cackles of alarm were coming from the chicken house.
“It’s the weasel or mink, or whatever it was that prowled last night,” he reported. “I’ll go out and see, because Stead says that sometimes, if you leave them all night, they gnaw out of the trap. Don’t you want to come too, Sis? Hurry up, then, and get your cape. No, don’t let the dogs out, they’ll get pinched in the trap, or chew the beast up, maybe, and I want to keep him whole. I guess the moon is bright enough, we will not need the lantern,” and seizing a stout stick, the Cub tiptoed carefully out to make as little noise as possible, not having yet learned that to wild animals scent serves as a warning even more than sound. Brooke, however, preferred to take the lantern, and lighting it, she quickly followed.
The Cub examined his traps. They were untouched, but as he knelt he saw a straight row of tracks in the snow, that were too large to belong to either weasel or mink. Following these, they led him around to the roosting house. There, between it and the open yard, something that appeared to be a small dog crouched in the corner.
The moon shone brightly between the buildings, and every hair of the little beast stood out as clearly as by electric light.
“It’s a half-grown fox,” whispered the Cub, to Brooke. “Good work if I can only kill it; there’ll be one less to kill the fowls. Look out that it doesn’t dodge past you there, Sis,” and the Cub was going toward it, club raised. But the little fox never stirred. They could only tell that it was alive by the heaving of its lean sides.
“Stop!” said Brooke, hoarsely, laying a detaining and no very gentle touch on her brother’s arm. “I won’t have it killed. I believe that it is starving, like those quails I saw this morning, only they could move, and this fox is too weak. I’m going to take it in the barn and feed it, and make it live. Get me some milk, and eggs, and meat.”
“You’re crazy, Sis; it is only a fox, and they’re bad things. It’ll bite you and make no end of a row,” but as he glanced at her face he saw something there that stopped all argument, and he hastened to obey.
Then Brooke, placing the lantern on the ground, drew nearer to the little beast. Yes, he was starving. He tried to stand and toppled over against the shed; he was powerless and at bay. Fixing her eyes on his, she read his feelings interpreted by her own of that very afternoon, and kneeling there in the snow, she understood him.
A vital wave swept over her. Hanging the lantern on her arm, she slipped the cape from off her shoulders with a swift movement, and covered the fox with it, wrapping him completely. Then, lifting him in her arms, for he was less weighty than a well-fed cat, she carried the bundle to the barn, and slipping the latch, laid the poor little beast on the haymow, a futile snap and snarl or two having been its only protests.