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“The crow kilt the pussy, O!

The crow kilt the pussy, O!

The muckle cat sat down and grat

On the back of Johnny Hoosie, O!”

The last “O” was long-drawn. Across it came the ill-dashed “yamf” of a fox.

“Something wrong with his crying pipes. That’s no barkin’ an’ fleeing sound,” said Andrew, flashing a glance over his shoulder at the girls behind. “Zooks! What a mad yammer he’s makin’ the morn!”

A sad yammer it was, with a note in it of supplication that in turn became a jabber, as of cackling laughter.

“Dear sakes! he’s cacklin’ like a hen—a hen, at a hen-wile.” The chauffeur leaned forward over his steering wheel. “Ah! there he is—the puir beastie. Dog out!” proclaimed the voice which had said the same of the falling aviator. “Ha! Trapped he is! Trapped, by that worming snake-fence! Trapped—an’ by the open roadside!”

Trapped! The girls shrank together, shuddering—young shoulder to shoulder.

“Deil tak’ it now! if this isn’t a sight to comb ’em against the hair—make the whole day seem ill-hued,” ground out Andrew. “Taken in a skunk trap, the bit beastie! This is no season for trappin’ foxes. Taken in a trap that some farmer has set for a skunk that’s been bothering his chickens! Weary fa’ the loon that set it here by the roadside!”