“You see,” he leaned forward, “a silver fox is a freak, just as a half-white robin is. If a half-white robin hatches his eggs his young ones are likely to be jolly little robin redbreasts, nothing more.
“Only by keeping foxes for years and years can you at last hope to raise pure silver foxes. That takes thousands and thousands of dollars. Four brothers went in for that in a big way years ago. Last year they sold 13,000 pelts for more than $1,000,000. And that,” he added, “figures up to something like $77.00 apiece.”
“That’s what our fox is worth,” Lawrence groaned. “And we’d have to kill him to get that?”
“Oh, sure,” Jim grinned. “But truly,” his face sobered, “that’s the tough part about fox farming. In the end you’ve got to kill ’em, so some fine lady can drape their skins about her neck.”
“I’d never sell ours to a fox farm,” Lawrence said with conviction.
“How about selling him alive to some zoo?” Johnny asked hopefully.
“Don’t know very much about that,” Jim replied slowly. “I wouldn’t hope too much. There are 5,000 fox farms these days. And they raise some beauties.
“But if you mean to keep this fellow alive,” he added, “you want to get a wooden barrel and make it into a den for him. Pack it all ’round with chaff and moss to make it warm. Then build him a wire pen all about it. He’ll get along fine if you do that.
“I’ll have to trot along.” He rose to go. “Come and see me. I’ll tell you more about ’em. They’re interesting no end, foxes are.” He bade them goodnight.
“Well,” Johnny drawled slowly, “Old Silver won’t buy us a tractor, that’s sure.”