“Getta da cent,” he resumed, “getta da tree cent. Zees grateful pipple, what haf no moosic, zey nevaire giva da nick, no, nevaire! Wis Jocko, zen, I meet zees place, where I stay for ze little res’ away from ze unappreciatif pipple. An’ here, what you zink? Jocko haf been stole from me!” Here his voice rose to an agonised shriek: “Jocko haf been stole!”
His grief broke through the dam and overflowed. The sight of a strong man’s tears is always terrible, and I turned away until the first outburst subsided.
Then I advanced to comfort the stricken man. “Perhaps, Uncle Antonio,” I said, kindly, “Jocko ran away of his own accord.”
“Hella da dev!” cried Uncle, clenching his hands. “What are zees pipple I haf been married to! Jocko, da monk, run away? Nevaire! Listen. Tree year now, Jocko and I maka da professional tour together. Jocko getta da cent from da audience, bringa him to me. Smarta da monk—weara da asbestos glove, taka da warm cent also. Jocko run away? Nevaire! Jocko haf been stole!”
After long consideration, I thought so, too. I knew very well that if any human being had stolen the Monkey, he would have been returned long before this. My memory of the animal was that he was rather troublesome, but of course I did not wish to say so, for fear of hurting my Uncle’s feelings.
Eliminating the human element from the proposition, there remained only one possible conclusion. Some animal had done it, in response to that merciless law of the wilderness, which bids the wood people seek and slay and devour; the law of claw and tooth and fang, from which there is no appeal.
Jocko had not been taken from his high perch—this left tramps and neighbours out of the question, also Coons and Owls. He had not been left partly eaten, so that Weasels, Pole-Cats, or Minks were not responsible. What animal could have taken Jocko away bodily? My quick, active mind immediately answered: “A Fox!”
I said nothing to Uncle Antonio of my suspicion. In the morning, when I went down to the lake for my bath, I found a foxglove which surely had not been there the night before. It was a mother, then, foraging for her young. I wondered how they liked Jocko. He was so disagreeable to me, personally, that he would certainly have disagreed with me, even if I had eaten him.
The next day, my suspicions were confirmed in an unexpected manner. The ivy which grew around my door was pulled down and badly trampled upon. I remembered the old saying, then: “Little foxes spoil the vines.” The mother, growing bolder, must have brought her young into my dooryard.
When you are troubled by a mother Fox, you may know that her den is far away. She never draws attention to herself in her own neighbourhood. When you are not troubled by a mother Fox, you may know that one is near at hand. This great truth is familiar to every Little Brother of the Woods.