Underneath the outspread wings of the chicken was the open trap, and as soon as Sharp Eyes’ paw touched the spring, snap! shut went the jaws of the trap, catching him fast there. It was the jaws of the trap pressing on Sharp Eyes’ paw that hurt him.
“Oh, if I could only get away!” said the little fox boy to himself. “If I can only get away I’ll never jump at a chicken again, without looking first to make sure there’s no trap!”
But it was too late to think of that now. Sharp Eyes was caught, and every time he pulled his leg it hurt him so that he soon stopped.
“Red Tail was right,” he whispered to himself. “He said something would happen to me some day, and it has. Oh dear!”
Sharp Eyes kept quiet as long as he could, and then his paw pained him so that he had to cry out. But he cried very softly. Then he called for his father and mother, using fox language, of course.
But they did not answer him, for they were far away.
“Twinkle! Winkle! Can’t you come and help me out of the trap?” barked the little fox boy, held fast, all alone in the woods, near the dead chicken.
But neither Twinkle nor Winkle answered. They, too, were far away. They were off hunting with their father and mother, and though they wondered where Sharp Eyes was, they thought he was safe.
“Sharp Eyes can take care of himself,” said his mother.
“But I hope the hunters or trappers don’t get him and take his lovely, silver fur,” said Winkle. If they could only have known what had happened to poor Sharp Eyes they would surely have gone to help him, wouldn’t they?