“S-sh!” Fatty Coon held up a warning hand. “Who’s that?” he asked, peering
down at a dark object at the foot of their tree.

Then both he and Solomon saw that it was Tommy Fox, sitting on his
haunches and staring at the big head, with its blazing eyes and nose and
mouth.

“Not looking for chickens, I suppose?” Solomon Owl called in a low tone,
which was hardly more than a whisper.

But Tommy Fox’s sharp ears heard him easily. And he looked up, licking his
chops as if he were very hungry indeed. And all the while the stranger
continued to stare straight at the chicken house, as if he did not intend
to let anybody go

prowling about that long, low building to steal any of Farmer Green’s
poultry.

It was no wonder that the three chicken-lovers (two in the tree and one
beneath it) hesitated. If the queer man had only spoken they might not
have been so timid. But he said never a word.





VIII
WATCHING THE CHICKENS