36 REDPAD THE FOX 
had drunk from a puddle, were the plain prints 
of pads. There was no doubt who had done the 
deed. 
Jack Skehan himself was not kindly disposed 
to the Hunt, and he threw out dark hints as to his 
future plans. However, he had no opportunity of 
carrying these into effect, for Redpad did not 
visit the sheep again after his one theft. What 
with one thing and another, his luck began to turn. 
He picked up two or three snared rabbits and 
other trifles, and the press of famine was over 
for a time. 
However, a week later, he was patrolling the 
fir wood at the top of Knockdane. It was a still 
night, mild for the season, with a crescent moon 
struggling behind a mass of little sheep-backed 
clouds. Presently he heard a businesslike patter 
of feet on the fir needles, and snuffing, that his 
nose might confirm his ears in correct fox fashion, 
he winded a dog. Redpad hated dogs only one 
degree less than men, and slipped quietly away 
into the shadows. The footsteps paused unde- 
cidedly at the spot where he had turned aside, then 
passed on. 
Shortly afterwards, Redpad was scaling the 
demesne wall, when a distant rumble of hoofs startled 
him. The ground slopes away gently from the 
