But next morning the body of one of
these highly esteemed branches of the egg-plant was found in the
corner, partly devoured. Quonab examined the headless hen, the
dust around, and uttered the word, "Mink."
Rolf said, "Why not skunk?"
"Skunk could not climb to the perch."
"Weasel then."
"Weasel would only suck the blood, and would kill three or four."
"Coon would carry him away, so would fox or wildcat, and a marten
would not come into the building by night."
There was no question, first, that it was a mink, and, second,
that he was hiding about the barn until the hunger pang should
send him again to the hen house. Quonab covered the hen's body
with two or three large stones so that there was only one
approach. In the way of this approach he buried a "number one"
trap.
That night they were aroused again; this time by a frightful
screeching, and a sympathetic, inquiring cackle from the fowls.
Arising, quickly they entered with a lantem. Rolf then saw a
sight that gave him a prickling in his hair. The mink, a large
male, was caught by one front paw. He was writhing and foaming,
tearing, sometimes at the trap, sometimes at the dead hen, and
sometimes at his own imprisoned foot, pausing now and then to
utter the most ear-piercing shrieks, then falling again in crazy
animal fury on the trap, splintering his sharp white teeth,
grinding the cruel metal with bruised and bloody jaws, frothing,
snarling, raving mad.
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