mallest mark possible and make
the shot uncertain for such a novice as Sparrer. By a great effort the
latter overcame the almost overwhelming temptation to shoot and waited,
hoping that the animal would turn broadside.

Suddenly he whirled like a flash. The boy's first thought was that he
had been discovered, but the next move of the fox explained his action.
Crouching so that he appeared to move on his belly he began to creep
toward the rabbit, which still sat motionless. The fox had caught the
scent of the latter at the instant he turned and he had but to follow
his nose straight to his victim. Meanwhile he presented no better mark
than before, as he was now moving straight away, and Sparrer held his
fire. By this time he was so interested in the tragedy that was being
enacted before him that he almost forgot his own immediate purpose.

Inch by inch the black hunter crept forward, hugging the snow. Then
Sparrer saw him gather his muscular hindlegs under him. There was a
swift leap and at the same instant the rabbit left her form in a long
jump. Before she could make another the fox was upon her. There was a
shrill scream, a crunching of teeth and it was over. For an instant the
fox stood with one foot on the still white form, a black statue of
triumph. Then he picked the rabbit up by the middle and the limp form
hung transversely in his jaws, the long legs hanging on one side and the
drooping head with ridiculously long ears on the other. It was clear
that Reynard did not intend to enjoy his feast on the spot.

In executing this last move he had turned broadside. It was now or never
for Sparrer. With infinite care he lined his sights just back of the
shoulder and pulled the trigger. Simultaneously with the sharp crack of
the rifle the fox made a convulsive spring and then crumpled in a black
heap on the snow. Shaking so that he could hardly manipulate the lever
Sparrer ejected the empty shell and threw another cartridge into place.
Then with the rifle at his shoulder, covering the pathetic black heap as
best he could, he slowly advanced. Somewhere he had read or heard that
it was an old fox trick to simulate death, and he was taking no chances.

But his precautions were needless. The bullet had severed the spinal
column. The silver fox of Smugglers' Hollow had stalked his last rabbit
and made his last kill. In the revulsion of feeling from the reaction
following the long nervous strain Sparrer hardly knew whether to