An hour passed. Tom must have grown pretty tired of squeaking. It
was a moonless evening, though not very dark. I could see objects
at a little distance through the crack, but could not see so far as
the stump. It got rather dull, watching there; and being amidst
nice cozy straw, I presently went to sleep, quite unintentionally.
I must have slept some time, though it seemed to me but a very few
minutes.

What woke me was a noise--a sharp suppressed yelp. It took me a
moment to understand where I was, and why I was there. A sound of
scuffling and tumbling on the ground at some distance assisted my
wandering wits, and I rushed out of the barn and ran toward the
field. As I ran, two or three dull whacks came to my ear.

"Got him, Tom?" I shouted, rushing up.

Tom was holding and squeezing one of his hands with the other and
shaking it violently. He said not a word, and left me to poke about
and stumble on the limp warm carcass of a large fox that lay near.

"Bite ye?" I exclaimed, after satisfying myself that the fox was
dead.

"Some," said Tom; and that was all I could get from him that night.

We took the fox to the house and lighted a candle. It was the
"silver-gray."

Tom washed his bite in cold water and went to bed. Next morning he
was in a sorry and a very sore plight. His left hand was bitten