Tito 



dred yards from the hollow, in which at that 

 very moment were the nine little pups, having 

 a perfectly delightful time with the Hen, pull- 

 ing it to pieces, feasting and growling, sneezing 

 the white feathers from their noses or coughing 

 them from their throats. 



If a puff of wind had now blown from them 

 toward Jake, it might have carried a flurry of 

 snowy plumes or even the merry cries of the 

 little revellers, and the den would have been 

 discovered at once. But, as luck would have 

 it, the evening lull was on, and all distant sounds 

 were hidden by the crashing that Jake made in 

 trying to trace his feather guides through the 

 last thicket. 



About this time Tito was returning home 

 with a Magpie that she had captured by watch- 

 ing till it went to feed within the ribs of a 

 dead Horse, when she ran across Jake's trail. 

 Now, a man on foot is always a suspicious char- 

 acter in this country. She followed the trail for 

 a little to see where he was going, and that she 

 knew at once from the scent. How it tells her 

 no one can say, yet all hunters know that it does. 

 And Tito marked that it was going straight 



