We were close to the den where the little foxes were, and the old ones were taking turns in trying to lead us away.

It was late night now, so we went home feeling sure that the problem was nearly solved.

II

It was well known that there was an old fox with his family living in the neighborhood, but no one supposed them so near.

This fox had been called ‘Scarface,’ because of a scar reaching from his eye through and back of his ear; this was supposed to have been given him by a barbed-wire fence during a rabbit hunt, and as the hair came in white after it healed, it was always a strong mark.

The winter before I had met with him and had had a sample of his craftiness.  I was out shooting, after a fall of snow, and had crossed the open fields to the edge of the brushy hollow back of the old mill.  As my head rose to a view of the hollow I caught sight of a fox trotting at long range down the other side, in line to cross my course.  Instantly I held motionless, and did not even lower or turn my head lest I should catch his eye by moving, until he went on out of sight in the thick cover at the bottom.  As soon as he was hidden I bobbed down and ran to head him off where he should leave the cover on the other side, and was there in good time awaiting, but no fox came forth.  A careful took showed the fresh track of a fox that had bounded from the cover, and following it with my eye I saw old Scarface himself far out of range behind me, sitting on his haunches and grinning as though much amused.

A study of the trail made all clear.  He had seen me at the moment I saw him, but he, also like a true hunter, had concealed the fact, putting on an air of unconcern till out of sight, when he had run for his life around behind me and amused himself by watching my stillborn trick.

In the springtime I had yet another instance of Scarface’s cunning.  I was walking with a friend along the road over the high pasture.  We passed within thirty feet of a ridge on which were several gray and brown bowlders.  When at the nearest point my friend said: 

“Stone number three looks to me very much like a fox curled up.”

But I could not see it, and we passed.  We had not gone many yards farther when the wind blew on this bowlder as on fur.

My friend said, “I am sure that is a fox, lying asleep.”

“We’ll soon settle that,” I replied, and turned back, but as soon as I had taken one step from the road, up jumped Scarface, for it was he, and ran.  A fire had swept the middle of the pasture, leaving a broad belt of black; over this he skurried till he came to the unburnt yellow grass again, where he squatted down and was lost to view.  He had been watching us all the time, and would not have moved had we kept to the road.  The wonderful part of this is, not that he resembled the round stones and dry grass, but that he knew he did, and was ready to profit by it.