# Redcoat/Chapter 11

IT was nearly a week after the famous chase and Redcoat's miraculous escape down the river before the Meadowdale Fox Club could again start the Phantom Fox. In the meantime they had started and run down and caught two other foxes. In each case, the run had been much shorter and less spectacular than that Redcoat had made. Some of the old hunters thought he had left the country but Denby said not so, for he knew that it is almost an impossibility to drive a cunning old fox from his favorite range.
The next time they started Redcoat it was to the north of his mountain, and once again the horsemen employed the same tactics as before. A part of their number were deployed along the highway parallel to the mountain, while the hounds and the balance ​of the horsemen were left free to run Redcoat in the open land further to the north. This time Redcoat led the chase four miles to the east, keeping perhaps half a mile from the roadway and the men on the highway followed in the road paralleling his course, feeling sure that he would sooner or later try to cross to the mountain. But, he came back for the entire distance to the Holcome farm before he attempted to make the crossing to the mountain, but here he found the horsemen spread out and waiting for him. In fact, they had been able to follow his run for the better part of the way and had seen him several times in the distance racing across the open fields. So, Redcoat had to turn back eastward again and go all over the eight weary miles. It was much warmer on this day than it had been during the first run. This made the running harder on both the fox and his pursuers. By the time Redcoat had once more reached the Holcome farm he had covered nearly sixteen miles and was all but spent. He must do something; either he must shake off his ​pursuers or get by the men in the roadway and thus escape to his mountain. Once again he tried the highway, but the horsemen were there waiting for him, shouting and waving their caps, so he turned back to the north. Redcoat had always made it a part of his policy to know every rod of the country over which he hunted and where he led the hounds on these wild chases, so there was not a square rod of the Holcome farm that he did not know nearly as well as did Bud Holcome himself. A quarter of a mile north of the Holcome farm buildings was an old stone wall, a boundary fence that divided the Holcome farm from that of their nearest neighbor. When Redcoat reached the southern end of this wall his pursuers were barely a furlong away. His plight was getting desperate. Something must be done, and his sharp fox wits never stood him in better stead than they did on this memorable chase, for when the hounds came up to the stone wall they followed it for about thirty rods northward and then at a barway, an artificial break in the stone wall, ​the trail suddenly ended. The hounds ran about sniffing the ground and yelping excitedly, and when the horsemen came up they all thought surely that the fox had holed, but they searched under the stone wall in every direction but could find no trace of him. Finally, after an hour's futile searching, they gave up the chase and went home completely baffled by the sudden disappearance of the Phantom Fox.
Three days later they started the celebrated fox once again on the north side of the mountain. As before, he led them away for four miles to the east and turning came back to the Holcome farm. Here he again tried to cross the highway to the mountain but was turned back. So, he went over the long hard run of four miles to the eastward again. When he once more returned to the Holcome farm the men and the hounds were close upon him and they thought surely that the pack would run him down in a very few minutes. Once again the crafty old fox circled to the Southern end of the stone wall and again the pack followed the trail up to ​the mysterious barway and lost it as before. Again the horsemen searched the country for twenty rods around trying to help the pack to pick up the scent, but without success. So the chase was again called off. Before the hunters started for town, Denby and his party stopped at the Holcome farm and impressed Bud for the next hunt. He was not to take part in the chase but was to watch from a tree some twenty rods from the barway and see where the Phantom Fox went, for Denby felt certain that he would try again this ruse that had worked so perfectly on the two previous hunts.
Two days later the Phantom Fox, who had now become the talk of the countryside, was again started to the north of his mountain. He seemed afraid to venture to the west for fear he would again be caught in the death trap between the pursuers and the river. The running was not as good as it had been the time before as it was getting warmer all the while, and on this day the ground was not so hard, but still it was a glorious morning for a run.
​Promptly as the hounds gave the signal, that the chase was on, Bud Holcome took up a commanding position in the spreading chestnut tree about twenty rods from the barway, where Redcoat had done his disappearance act for two successive runs. Bud's conscience was not quite clear about taking part in the hunt as he had promised Kitty Mason he would not shoot or trap the fox, but with this arrangement he was only a looker-on, besides he had a great curiosity to see where the fox did go as the whole matter was inexplicable to him. Bud had participated in many fox hunts, but never before from the side lines. In other hunts he had been right in the thick of the battle. He had carried a gun and been as eager as anyone to get the fox, but now he saw the hunt for the first time as a spectator, without prejudice.
As in the two runs before, Redcoat took the baying pack and the galloping horsemen four miles to the east and then returned to the Holcome farm. When he came back Bud got a good view of him. He saw him ​for an eighth of a mile running belly to earth, leading his pursuers in a wonderful run, and for the first time in his life Bud noted how small the fox was in comparison with his pursuers, even the tall gaunt hounds looked gigantic compared with him, and they were all pursuing him so desperately. To them it was just a jolly bit of fun, or manly sport, but to Redcoat it was a desperate life and death game. Bud could not but be impressed with his courage and the great fight he was making for his life. Could he, Bud Holcome, put up such a fight for his own life? Once again the hounds and the horsemen disappeared to the eastward and they were gone much longer than before. Bud began to think they had caught him at last, when he heard the hounds coming back. Finally he discovered poor Redcoat loping along with his tail down, and his whole aspect denoting utter fatigue. The hounds also were badly fagged out and the horses, covered with sweat and lather, were following at a dog trot. The race had told upon all, pursuer and pursued were all but "in."
​As Bud saw the cunning old fox make for the south end of the stone wall where he had run the days before, a great sense of pity came over Bud. He experienced his first attack of what hunters call "Buck fever." It was not sport that he was witnessing. It was tragedy. A great cowardly lot of men and dogs were running the life out of a little red fox in order that they might squabble over his brush at the end of the chase.
But here Bud's thoughts were interrupted, as he was intently watching to see if he could discover the ruse of the Phantom Fox. As he had expected, the fox disappeared at the southern end of the wall, and Bud knew that he was running on the ground on the further side where he could not see him. Presently he appeared at the barway, but Bud was wholly unprepared for the next move. For he jumped wearily upon the wall and started trotting briskly northward. Bud gave a surprised cry of wonder and disgust.
"Oh, that will never do old chap," he said ​aloud. "The hounds will pick up the track when you jump off."
But Bud had forgotten the Leaning Pine, as that curious tree was called on the Holcome farm. It was a queer pine which stood against the wall about twenty-five rods above the barway. It leaned so sharply that everyone had wondered why the wind did not blow it down, but it had stood wind and weather for perhaps a hundred years.
In a very few seconds Redcoat had covered the distance to the tree, and without even breaking his trot, he scrambled up the rough bark and in five seconds' time was completely hidden from the boy's curious gaze in the bushy top of the tree. Bud burst into a roar of laughter. The ruse was complete. The wall would give off little scent and the hunters would never dream of looking in the tree for anything but a racoon. Then a great sense of Bud's own responsibility came to him. He was to be the traitor. He was the one who would finally spill Redcoat's blood and give the Meadowdale Club his much coveted brush. Then he remembered ​the great fight the old fox had made and how small he was compared with his enemies, who at this point appeared in the distance; first the pack and then the horsemen, and a sudden resolve came to Bud. He would not betray the fox, but he would have to use his wits in order to mislead the club. He would have to be as resourceful as the fox himself, "foxy" in fact. But they would never get the truth from him no matter what they said to him. With this resolve, Bud climbed down the tree and went to meet the hunters.
"Well, Holcome, where did he go?" cried Denby excitedly, riding up, closely followed by a half dozen other members of the club.
"Ask me something I can tell you," replied Bud guardedly.
"Did you see him run as far as the south end of the wall?" questioned Denby.
"Yes, I did," replied Bud, "but then I lost him for a spell. He must have run on the other side of the stone wall."
"Just so," returned the Virginian. "The dogs trailed him on that side, but did you not see him at the barway?"
​"I got a flash of something red which looked like a fox," said Bud.
"Didn't he come through the field this way?" inquired another member of the club.
"No," said Bud. "I am sure he didn't come this way."
"Did he go through the field beyond the fence?" inquired another.
"No," returned Bud. "I am sure he did not."
"Well, where in the dickens did he go?" queried Denby.
"Ask me something easy," said Bud. "He is certainly a sly fellow."
"It is just as I have said all the time," put in Denby. "He has got a hole under the wall somewhere. Boys we have got to search the wall more carefully. Call in the pack and let's go at it systematically."
For half an hour the men and dogs searched the wall, going almost as far as the Leaning Pine. Once when one of the members looked up into the top of the queer tree, Bud's heart gave a jump of excitement. But the hunter soon went back to his ​inspection of the wall. They pulled out many loose stones at the bottom of the wall, while the hounds sniffed eagerly at each new opening. Bud was afraid that some dog, more inquisitive than his fellows, might climb upon the wall, but none did. But even so, Bud doubted if they would have discovered the clue, as the sun was now quite hot, and the stones would not give off much scent. Finally, after half an hour, the horsemen rode away. Denby stopped and hailed Bud with a departing shot.
"We won't want you next time," he said. "We will get one of our own members to watch. We want a man who has got eyes in his head."
"All right," returned Bud, but he felt it was far from a good arrangement, for he was quite sure that since Redcoat had so successfully worked this cunning ruse three times, he would try it again and be discovered. What an ignoble end for the cunning old fox, to be treed like a stupid racoon, and then shot upon his perch, or poled off for the hounds to kill. It was an unworthy end ​for the cleverest fox who ever led hounds upon a wild goose chase. Something must be done to prevent it, but what? Bud himself felt utterly powerless, yet something must be done.
That night, when Bud went in to supper, he found a letter beside his plate on the supper table which added greatly to his resolve to do something to save Redcoat from his impending doom. The letter was from a friend, one Mr. Jennings, the manager and part owner of the Sheerfield Silver Fox Farm, forty miles further up the river. Mr. Jennings was a friend of the family, and Bud had several times visited at the farm. The letter read as follows:
"Dear Bud: Do you remember the blue foxes which I had just received from Alaska when you were here last? Well they are looking fine, and I think raising them is going to be a success. For years I have had a dream of crossing these blues with our ordinary red fox, and I am now in need of a fine male specimen of the red fox. Whatever became of that clever red fox which ​you were telling me of when you were here? I wish I had him alive and sound to cross with my blues. Bud, I am quite excited about this project. So much so, that I will give you five hundred dollars cash for him if you will capture him alive and deliver him to me. I should want him very soon as the mating season is rapidly passing."
Bud stopped at this point to read the letter over again. Five hundred dollars. He could scarcely believe his eyes. But there it was in cold type. Why, that would be money enough with what he could earn to start him in college, and this was the dream of his life! What a chance, but what a condition! To trap Redcoat and deliver him safe and sound, why one might as well try to trap the West Wind. He had already tried all sorts of traps and had failed in each instance. But the balance of the letter gave Bud a clue, so he read on.
"I do not know just how this is to be done, but here is a suggestion. The blue foxes on the farms in Alaska are trapped in large wire box traps, but of course the blue is
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​quite different from the red, and much more simple, and far less cunning. But I will leave it to you Bud. I am in hopes you will find a way."
Bud folded the letter carefully and put it in his pocket, and after supper he went out to the harness room in the barn and took down a half pint bottle. It had stood there on a beam in the room for two years and he had not looked at it for several months, but now it held a great interest for the excited boy. It was a strange dark liquid which an old trapper from Canada had given him two years before. It was supposed to be a sort of fox charm. A medicine which would cause foxes to lose all their natural suspicion and cunning and follow this charm into any trap. Bud never had believed in the charm, but now it was his only chance. Perhaps it would work. The vile smelling stuff was compounded of beaver caster, the oil of anise seed and several other equally rank smelling substances. Perhaps it might smell good to a fox, but it made the boy fairly gag as he took a good whiff of it.
​"Well," he said as he corked up the bottle, "it is a long shot, but I am going to try it. It is the only chance I have got to save the red fox and at the same time help myself."
"But you promised Kitty not to trap Redcoat," said the still small voice.
"Well," retorted Bud, "this is not trapping him in the usual sense, besides it is getting him out of the way for his own good. I am sure that Kitty would approve if I were to explain to her."
For a couple of hours Bud's family heard him hammering away in the barn and when he finally came in and went to bed Mr. Holcome could only elicit from him that he had been making something. But the something that he had made was a large box trap, three feet long, two feet high, and twenty inches wide. It was all complete even to the spindle and Bud had hidden it in the hayloft, and as he went to bed he set his alarm clock for four o'clock. He would be up and away to the mountain long before the rest of the family were astir. It was a ​wild goose chase anyhow, and he did not want his father to laugh at him, as he would surely do if he knew. It was his secret and he intended to keep it well.
Shortly after four o'clock the following morning, Bud started for the mountain carrying the heavy box trap on his shoulder. In his pocket he also had the bottle of fox charm, and fifteen feet of inch rope wound around his waist. He was wearing the most disreputable pair of shoes that he could find on the place, the reason for which will appear later.
Although the trap was made of inch pine board, yet it was rather heavy and Bud often set it down to rest as he climbed the steeper places on the mountain. Finally after half an hour he arrived at the clump of spruces where he knew Redcoat had his headquarters. He had never found the den, in fact he did not much care where it was so long as he set the trap somewhere near it. He finally discovered just the place he wanted. It was a clump of bushes not too thick and he placed the box trap in their midst. Then ​he cut a dozen or more pine boughs, perhaps three feet long, and stuck these up in the ground around the box trap, until when he had finished it was entirely hidden in the little pine bower. He then littered the bottom of the trap with pine needles, until it was as green as the carpet of the ancient wood. Then he fastened a chicken head to the spindle of the trap, drew up the door by the cord which past through the upright at the end of the trap, and carefully adjusted the trigger at the back side. But, previous to this, with a small brush which he had brought for the purpose, he had generously painted the inside of the trap with the fox charm. The chicken head on the spindle fairly reeked with it. But, strangest of all, at least it would seem strange to Redcoat, Bud had stopped half way up the mountain and smeared the bottom of his shoes with the obnoxious fox charm. When he had finished setting the trap, he uncoiled the inch rope from his waist and smeared it from end to end with the obnoxious fluid. Then, after recoating his shoes with the same vile smel​ling stuff, he started for a ten minute walk out and in among the spruces and through the thickets where Redcoat would be most likely to go. The fox charm was so pungent that Bud could actually follow his own back track merely from his sense of smell. Surely Redcoat could not miss this trail, if the charm had any such alluring power for foxes as it was said to possess. Then Bud returned to the trap and poured the remaining contents of the bottle on the rope and started on his return trip down the mountain. Half a mile from home he hung the rope up in a tree, deposited the empty bottle in a crevice in the rocks, and took off his shoes and hid them. He knew it would never do to return home with such a scent upon his person.
Bud was so excited that he could scarcely work that day. All the time he was thinking of his plans and wondering if the fox charm would work. The capture of Redcoat meant so much, not only to the fox himself but also to Bud.
On this same morning, while Bud Hol​come was making his preparations down at the farm, Redcoat arose from a little glade where he had been sleeping, yawned, shook himself, and started down the mountain. He was going on a hunting expedition, presumably for mice, but would take anything that happened to come his way.
A couple of hours later, while Bud was doing the barn chores, Redcoat returned to his lair. Half way up the mountain he discovered Bud's tracks. But, Oh, what a trail it was! He had never smelled anything like it before in his whole life. True, there was a strong suggestion of the man scent about it, but it was overpowered by a strange, ravishing odor, which made Redcoat's nerves tingle and his heart to beat fast with excitement. He followed the trail rapidly up the mountain, becoming more mystified and more obsessed by it with each rod he covered.
Was it a man-trail? Yes. But no. It could not be, for when had the scent of man so filled a fox with delight, making his nerves to tingle with a mad incomprehensi​ble joy, which seemed to extend even to the tip of the tail? When he finally struck the heavily scented trail made by the dragging rope, his eyes flashed and saliva dripped from his jaws. After that he could not go fast enough. Once he stopped at a point where Bud had replenished the odorous stuff on his shoes, and rolled on the ground where the scent was strongest, rubbing his face backward and forward, but he did not tarry long for the reeking charm grew stronger with each rod covered. When he finally reached the clump of bushes where the trap was set, the last shred of his natural suspicion and fox cunning had been lulled to sleep. The only thing in the world he knew or felt was this ravishing scent about him. He wanted to roll in it, to swim in it, to draw it into his nostrils for the rest of his life.
But all the time he had been trotting eagerly up the mountain on Bud's trail, something had suggested caution to him. The guardian of the wild creatures had whispered again and again, "beware, beware." ​But Redcoat did not heed the sound; it was only the wind.
But now as he paused before the trap, this warning became even more insistent. Even the trees, the ferns and the bushes seemed to cry "beware," until poor Redcoat was nearly distraught with the contending forces that were pulling this way and that upon his life.
For perhaps a full minute Redcoat groveled upon his belly before the trap. The trap which all his senses and his instinct and his fox cunning told him was a trap, while the trees, bushes and ferns all held their breath. The spirit of the woods, that gentle custodian of the wild things, again cried "go back," but Redcoat did not hear her, or if he did he did not heed the warning. Finally the resistance of his will to the overpowering fox charm went down and he crawled, still groveling upon his belly, into the trap, his jaws dripping saliva, and trembling in every muscle. His suspicions were entirely put to sleep, and his splendid native cunning was for the time being dormant.
​He did not catch the chicken's head on the spindle in his mouth, as he would have done ordinarily if he had been hungry, but instead he rubbed his cheek against it. Bang, went the heavy door of the box trap, and it was suddenly dark in the little house that Bud Holcome's ingenuity had devised for him. With the click of the spring bolt, with which Bud had equipped the trap, a sudden realization came over Redcoat as to what had happened. With a frightened snarl he sprang up, striking his head against the top of the trap. Then began a series of mad springs against first one end and then the other of the strong little house in which he was a prisoner. This lasted intermittently for half an hour, then Redcoat lay down upon the floor, with his head upon his paws, to think. To see, if he could collect his scattered wits and make sure what had happened to him. He lay with his head as far away as possible from the chicken head which reeked with the obnoxious fox charm. For, from being the most ravishing odor he ​had ever smelled, this scent had in an instant become the most obnoxious smell he knew of.
There was no mistaking the one who had done this thing. It was the same man creature he had seen so often upon the farm. The one he knew best of all. The man who had caught his paw in the strange trap which he had hidden in the river. The one who had caught his tongue on the railroad track and then had pointed the thunder stick at him. The one who had come so near to getting him on several occasions. He had known all the time that it was he whom he was following. His unmistakable scent was in every footprint up the side of the mountain. The box trap fairly reeked with it, now Redcoat had gotten his sense back and smelled with his old keen intelligence. Yes, it was he who had caught him in this strange house. A house which did not hurt him, but simply held him and did not let him go. That dreadful man had taken away his wits by this horrible smelling stuff. He had caused him to lose all his ​reason and then he had gone into the trap.
Again Redcoat tried the little house at every corner, but there was no escape, so he finally lay down to await his fate. He was not beaten. He was not badly cowed, only a dreadful fear gripped him at times, and this made him weak and sick. Yet he did not give up as some other wild animals would have done. He would wait and watch. At the first ray of light from any corner of the trap he would be waiting to dash forth and escape. If he ever got free, he would run so far and so fast they would never find him again. This country where men came and went so freely, where the Thunderer rushed by each day, was too noisy and too dangerous. He would find a new range far from the haunts of men.
Of course, Redcoat's thoughts were not as concrete as this, but there was born within him, while he waited in the trap, a great repulsion for the haunts and ways of men. They were too dangerous. A poor fox could not hope to escape amid such dangers.
​Ordinarily Bud would not have visited the trap until the following morning, as it is not well to watch a trap too closely once it is set, but that same evening he had an errand on the mountain. Perhaps he made the fact that he was on the mountain searching for sassafras wood for a new bow the excuse for looking at the trap. This was no common trapping event. If successful it meant five hundred dollars.
Bud could scarce believe his eyes when he came in sight of the thicket where he had set the trap and discovered it was sprung. In fact, he did really rub his eyes and look again, but there was no mistaking the fact. The door of the trap showed plainly and it was down. Then Bud caught himself up short and chuckled. He must not get excited. It was just a fool skunk, or perhaps a rabbit had sprung the trap. There was not one chance in a hundred that he had caught the Phantom Fox at the very first try with the box trap. Bud approached the trap at a quick pace and lifted it cautiously. My, but it was heavy. That was not a ​skunk; besides there was no skunk smell. Then Bud pulled out the spindle at the back of the trap and kneeling down peeked into the trap. To his great surprise and joy he was looking straight into the yellow eyes of a fox, and judging from his size it was the Phantom Fox. Yes, he had caught the sly old chap, but it was not because of any cleverness on his part. It was the fox charm that had done the trick.
Bud started slowly down the mountain with the trap on his shoulder. If the trap had been heavy when he brought it up, it was doubly heavy now, but Bud took his time. In fact, he did not want to appear in the valley carrying the box trap on his shoulder until after dark. He was afraid some one would see him and want to know what he had caught. The capture of the Phantom Fox was to be his secret. He would tell Kitty, but no one else must ever know. It would add even more to the mystery surrounding the celebrated fox if he simply "faded" from sight.
Bud made the trip home without encoun​tering any of his curious neighbors, and after fitting up the box trap so that it would give Redcoat a little more air, he loaded him into the back of the Ford truck and started for the Sheerfield Silver Fox Farm. He intended to lose no time in getting his money, besides he was afraid to keep the sly fox for any length of time as he might escape in some way. As for Redcoat, he had no idea where they were going or what was to become of him. He had heard Bud coming up the mountain even before Bud had discovered that the trap was sprung. As the trap was resting on the ground, Bud's footsteps had sounded to the tense ears of the fox like the tread of a "Fe-Fi-Fo-Fum" giant. When Bud had peered into the trap, Redcoat had quickly turned his head and looked in another direction. Once he had peered out of the peek hole in the back of the trap where the spindle had been, and had watched his mountain gradually recede. He did not know, but that was the last glimpse he ever had of his beloved mountain, the stronghold that had sheltered ​him so many times. As he lay in the box trap while the automobile rattled rapidly along the smooth road, Redcoat rested his muzzle on his paws and waited the next move of his captor. He was ready for any chance that might offer, but whether that chance would be given him or not, was what troubled him.
Redcoat lay listening to the purring motor of the little car, while all that he loved and knew was left rapidly behind. Did he dream of the den in the spruces, or the green meadows where the mice were so plenty, or the great river, or was he thinking of Fluffy and the pups which would be born in a few days without a sire to guard the den, or to hunt for the mother fox? Who shall say? For what naturalist knows just where instinct leaves off and intelligence begins, or how far the wild animals penetrate the domain of man.
After an hour and a half of fast driving Bud wheeled up to Mr. Jennings' house, and they were at the Sheerfield Silver Fox Farm, famed throughout the country.
​Bud gave the doorbell such a vigorous punch and held on to it so long in his excitement that Mr. Jennings hurried to the door.
"I've got him, I've got him, Mr. Jennings," cried the boy excitedly, as his friend thrust his head through the partly opened door.
"Why, Bud Holcome, is that you?" exclaimed the man equally excited. "What is it you have got? What is all this excitement about anyhow?"
"I've got the Phantom Fox. I caught him on the mountain in a box trap today."
"You may have a red fox, Bud," said Mr. Jennings guardedly, "but I rather doubt if you have him. He is much too clever to be caught in that way."
"It was the fox charm that did it. The box trap would have been useless without it. But I am sure it is he. You just lead the way to an empty pen and I will show him to you."
Mr. Jennings was now as excited as Bud, ​so he started for the farm without even stopping for his hat, while Bud followed with the box trap on his shoulder.
When they had entered an empty pen, Bud pulled out the nails with which he had secured the wire netting around the box trap door and slowly lifted the door. But Redcoat had not been taken unawares, he was ready, tense and waiting. As soon as the door had been lifted enough to allow his passing beneath it he sprang out like a flash and with two great jumps landed full against the wire netting fence. He had thought it so fragile that he could go through it just as though it had been a willow thicket, but to his great surprise this fragile looking wall threw him back heavily. But he was up again like a flash and went up the wall of the wire fence like a cat. But at the top his head struck the shelf which extended horizontally for a foot and a half and he again fell heavily upon his back.
"Here, here, old chap," said Mr. Jen​nings soothingly. "That is wire netting. I guess you never saw any before."
No, Redcoat had never seen anything like this in his whole life. It was too difficult for him to assay while they were looking, but he would break through it later on, so he slunk into a corner and cowered on the ground.
"Great Cæsar," cried Mr. Jennings excitedly now he could fairly see the newcomer. "It is the Phantom Fox all right. My, but he is a beauty. Bud, this is a wonderful piece of work you have done for me. I am more pleased than you can possibly know."
"I am glad if you are satisfied," said Bud, "but I guess I had better be getting back home. It will take me until midnight."
Mr. Jennings tried to have Bud spend the night with him, but he would not hear of it. He was too eager to get home and tell the good news to Kitty and his folks. So after Mr. Jennings had counted out five crisp one hundred dollar bills, Bud jumped into the truck and stepped on the gas.
​He must hurry, hurry, hurry; his news would not wait. And if instead of the gleaming white road ahead of him Bud saw a college campus with well kept lawns and shady trees, and if instead of the humming of the motor he heard the cheering throngs at football and baseball games, or the rhythmic lilt of college songs who can blame him? For he had the cash in his pocket, and college was a sure thing.