
The Fox Terrier 
By MortTiMEer Browne 
Although the rage for the fox terrier 
has passed somewhat, and other breeds 
have to a certain extent taken its place, 
yet it still ranks as one of the most 
fashionable of small dogs and will, un- 
doubtedly, be a pet and companion in the 
future as in the past. As a house dog the 
fox terrier is nearly perfect; indeed, when 
not snappy, it fulfills every demand. 
Few persons realize that no_ better 
sporting breed for certain purposes exists. 
Western hunters know this, and several 
packs used for hunting bears are composed 
exclusively of tox ‘terriers. “Well “dot 
remember “Patch,” the leader of the pack 
belonging to Marty Lund, a Swede who 
eight or ten years ago made life miserable 
for the bears of the Purcell range, British 
Columbia. Patch would not have stood 
the remotest chance of even a H. C. 
at either Croft’s or the W. K. C. shows, 
but when it came to downright hunting 
he was strictly in it. There were half a 
dozen others in the pack, but none was 
so active, intelligent and keen as Patch. 
Marty did not care a rap about a straight 
front, or a long “varmint” head, but he 
knew a good dog when he saw it, and the 
best he had ever owned was Patch. 
“You'd ought to seed that ther’ dawg act 
the time my old rifle missed fire, up Quartz 
creek,” Marty once said, as we lay toast- 
ing our shins before a camp-fire not far 
below timber line, watching the said little 
hero licking his paws after a hard day’s 
work. “It was in the spring o’ the year, 
and all the b’ars was down along the bot- 
tom lands, and I had got my share—four 
in seven days’ clear hunting, and only ten 
days away from settlements—when we 
run on to the biggest tracks I ever seen, 
agoin’ into a big belt o’ willows. The 
dawgs took after him, Patch in the lead, 
and in a mighty short time they had him 
rounded up. 
“Scared ? 
No, sir, them dawgs are too - 
active for any grizzly. Seems to me 
they kinder make a b’ar batty. He don’t 
know what to think when he sees them 
little white divils a-runnin’ ’round, fit to 
beat the band, and hollerin’ blue murder. 
So he just sits down on his stern and 
watches out for a chance to swipe ’em. 
But he don’t get ’em often. Let’s see,” 
here Marty began to reckon on his fingers, 
“there was Bob—never amounted to much, 
had no savey; and Lucy—a smart little 
bitch, but terrible venturesome; and Kai- 
ser, and Siwash, that’s about all I remem- 
bers havin’ lost, and I’ve been at the 
game nigh on to ten years. Well, as I 
was sayin’, Patch and the rest o’ the pack 
had that ther’ b’ar rounded up and I took 
a’ter them for to get a shot at the old 
varmint. 
“Well, I soon cum’d to the b’ar. Ther’ 
he were sittin’ up lookin’ real mean, and 
the dawgs a-circlin’ round, but bein’ 
mighty ’ticular not to let Mr. B’ar git a 
swipe at ’em. I walks up slow and easy 
to within fifty feet, and then the rifle 
misses fire. Yes, sir, it warn’t no repeater, 
and long ’fore I could ha’ got ready for 
another shot Mr. B’ar would have had 
somethin’ to say, for he had seen me at - 
last an’ was just startin’ to git busy. 
“What did Patch do? Why, sir, he just 
sailed in for that ther’ b’ar’s rump like 
h 1, and blessed if the old varmint 
didn’t clean, plumb forgit all about me, 
and turn to chase that ther’ dawg. Well 
he did n’t catch him—quite—though once 
or twice I thought he had, and I felt 
kinder sick to think o’ poor Patch—but he 
did catch a 500-grain bullet “bout six 
inches back o’ the ear—after which he 
knowed nothin’. 
“No, I don’t know as how I'll sell 
Patch, just yit. Eh, boy?” and the big, 
hairy hand patted the dog’s head. 
“Grizzlies bain’t as plentiful as they was, 
and Patch ain’t as young as he was, but 
we might chance across one next spring 
all the same.” 

