204 A BRUSH WITH FATE. 
one side, drew mazes of his scent in a quarry, 
fell in with other foxes, and ran with them. 
Presently he found himself racing along a 
railway track—nearly getting run over by the 
1.40 p.m. ‘up’ for his pains. So he jumped 
on to one end of a cottage roof, and down 
the other, and after that worked for a mile 
up a stream, coming out first on one side, 
then on the other. 
But the rousing, rollicking clamour of the 
hunting pack was for ever in his ears; and 
when, black with sweat, with tongue out, and 
brush hung low, he dragged himself into the 
oak hanging-wood late in the afternoon, with 
hounds only a field or two behind him, 
things looked very black indeed for the red 
rover. 
And yet—well, it certainly seemed as if even 
then there was more than the likeness to a 
grin on his cunning ‘ mask.’ 
In the centre of the oak ‘ hanger’ was a brick 
shanty, with a low brick chimney and a locked 
door, used by the gamekeepers as a watch- 
house, and to this cantered friend fox. Arrived 
at the spot, he sat down to regain breath, 
while the hounds fairly made the ‘hanger’ 
rock with the volume of their ‘ music.’ 
Then, mustering all his remaining strength, 
Reynard leapt to the low, sloping roof, ran 
