So he trots past you, still planning; crosses the wall by a certain
stone that he has used ever since he was a cub fox; seems to float
across an old pasture, stopping only to run about a bit among some cow
tracks, to kill the scent; and so on towards his big hill. Before he
gets there he will have a skilful retreat planned, back to the ponds,
in case old Roby untangles his crisscross, or some young fool-hound
blunders too near the rock whereon he sits, watching the game.

If you meet him now, face to face, you will see no quiet assumption of
superiority; unless perchance he is a young fox, that has not learned
what it means to be met on a runway by a man with a gun when the dogs
are driving. With your first slightest movement there is a flash of
yellow fur, and he has vanished into the thickest bit of underbrush at
hand.--Don't run; you will not see him again here. He knows the old
roads and paths far better than you do, and can reach his big hill by
any one of a dozen routes where you would never dream of looking. But
if you want another glimpse of him, take the shortest cut to the hill.
He may take a nap, or sit and listen a while to the dogs, or run round
a swamp before he gets there. Sit on the wall in plain sight; make a
post of yourself; keep still, and keep your eyes open.

Once, in just such a place, I had a rare chance to watch him. It was
on the summit of a great bare hill. Down in the woods by a swamp, five
or six hounds were waking the winter echoes merrily on a fresh trail.
I was hoping for a sight of Reynard when he appeared from nowhere, on
a rock not fifty yards away. There he lay, his nose between his paws,
listening with quiet interest to the uproar below. Occasionally he
raised his head as some young dog scurried near, yelping maledictions
upon a perfect tangle of fox tracks, none of which went anywhere.