Foam—A Razor-Backed Hog 
But Foam, whose eyes here helped him not, was 
all ablaze. Not waiting for the huge old hulking 
grandam to swing away, he sent her rolling down 
the slope with the armpit heave and pitch that 
the wrestler knows makes double of his strength. 
The gold-red mane on his back stood up as he 
nosed and mouthed the post, then he raked his 
flanks against it, and reared and rubbed again; ran 
forward a little to scan the trail, came back to rub 
in a new excitement, then raced like a Mad-moon 
buck, and came again, drove others from the post, 
and circled off still farther in the woods. 
Then nosing a trail that to the eye said nothing, he 
followed it at speed. This way and that, then ever 
more sure, sprang through a swamp-wood thicket and 
into a sunny open, to see leap also from the screen a 
slim gray form, a Razor-back, one of his own high 
blood: and more, his nostrils bade him know that this 
was the very one that left the message on the post. 
She fled, he bounded after. Across the open 
stretch, with Foam still nearer, a keen-eyed witness 
might have doubted that she ran her fastest. Who 
can tell? This much is sure: before the edge of 
woods was reached he overtook her, and she wheeled 
and faced, uttering little puffs, half fear, half beg-__ 
ging for release; and face to face, a little on the slant “~~~! 
they stood, strong Foam and slim Grizel. 
55 
