"There," said he, triumphantly, "don't them smell _mousey_?"

They did, certainly; they savored as strongly of mice as Tom's
question of bad grammar.

"And don't foxes catch mice?" demanded Tom, confidently.

"Yes, but I don't see how that's going to catch the fox," I said.

"Well, look here, then, I'll show ye," said he. "Play you's the
fox; and play 't was night, and you was prowling around the fields.
Go off now out there by that stump."

Full of wonder and curiosity, I retired to the stump. Tom,
meantime, turned out the mass of nests, and with it completely
covered himself. The pile now resembled an enormous mouse-nest, or
rather a small hay-cock. Pretty soon I heard a low, high-keyed,
squeaking noise, accompanied by a slight rustle inside the nest.
Evidently there were mice in it; and, feeling my character as fox
at stake, I at once trotted forward, then crept up, and, as the
rustling and squeaking continued, made a pounce into the grass--as
I had heard it said that foxes did when mousing. Instantly two spry
brown hands from out the nest clutched me with a most vengeful
grip. As a fox, I struggled tremendously. But Tom overcame me
forthwith, choked me nearly black in the face, then, in dumb show,
knocked my head with a stone.

"D'ye see, now!" he demanded.

I saw.