Skookum's pride was touched.
He was in to win or break. His supreme effort brought him within
five feet of that white-tipped brush. Then, strange to tell, the
big black fox put forth his large reserve of speed, and making
for the woods, left Skookum far behind. Why? The cause was
clear. Quonab, after vainly watching for a chance to shoot, that
would not endanger the dog, had, under cover, crept around the
lake and now was awaiting in a thicket. But the fox's keen nose
had warned him. He knew that the funny part was over, so ran for
the woods and disappeared as a ball tossed up the snow behind
him.
Poor Skookum's tongue was nearly a foot long as he walked meekly
ashore. He looked depressed; his tail was depressed; so were his
ears; but there was nothing to show whether he would have told
that reporter that he "wasn't feeling up to his usual, to-day,"
or "Didn't you see me get the best of him?"
Chapter 40. The Rarest of Pelts
They saw that silver fox three or four times during the winter,
and once found that he had had the audacity to jump from a high
snowdrift onto the storehouse and thence to the cabin roof, where
he had feasted on some white rabbits kept there for deadfall
baits.
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