n his trail,
but had left home to hunt for their own pleasure. He could not know that
it was against the law to hunt him with dogs. But though none of those
hunters looking for him were guilty of having put the hounds on his
trail, each one of them was willing and eager to take advantage of the
fact that the hounds were on his trail. Already he had been shot at once
and he knew that he would be shot at again if he should be driven where
a hunter was hidden.

The ground was damp and scent always lies best on damp ground. This
made it easy for the hounds to follow him with their wonderful noses.
Lightfoot tried every trick he could think of to make those hounds lose
the scent.

"If only I could make them lose it long enough for me to get a little
rest, it would help," panted Lightfoot, as he paused for just an instant
to listen to the baying of the hounds.

But he couldn't. They allowed him no rest. He was becoming very, very
tired. He could no longer bound lightly over fallen logs or brush, as he
had done at first. His lungs ached as he panted for breath. He realized
that even though he should escape the hunters he would meet an even more
terrible death unless he could get rid of those hounds. There would
come a time when he would have to stop. Then those hounds would catch up
with him and tear him to pieces.

It was then that he remembered the Big River. He turned towards it. It
was his only chance and he knew it. Straight through the Green Forest,
out across the Green Meadows to the bank of the Big River, Lightfoot
ran. For just a second he paused to look behind. The hounds were almost
at his heels. Lightfoot hesitated no longer but plunged into the Big
River and began to swim. On the banks the hounds stopped and bayed their
disappointment, for they did not dare follow Lightfoot out into the Big
River.

CHAPTER XXII

LIGHTFOOT'S LONG SWIM

The Big River was very wide. It would have been a long swim for
Lightfoot had he been fresh and at his best. Strange as it may seem,
Lightfoot is a splendid swimmer, despite his small, delicate feet. He
enjoys swimming.

But now Lightfoot was terribly tired from his long run ahead of the
hounds. For a time he swam rapidly, but those weary muscles grew still
more weary, and by the time he reached the middle of the Big River it
seemed to him that he was not getting ahead at all. At first he had
tried to swim towards a clump of trees he could see on the opposite bank