Filled with wrath, but afraid to shoot lest he should kill the remaining kitten, Merivale bounded forward with a yell and aimed a vindictive kick at the assassin. Needless to say, he missed his mark. He just saved himself from falling, and staggered heavily against the wall of the den, while the fox, not stopping to argue the matter and present his own point of view, slipped over the ledge and vanished, an indignant red streak, through the bushes.
Merivale eased his feelings with a few vigorous curses, then turned his attention to the valiant little survivor, which had backed away against the rock wall and was spitting and snarling bravely at the new foe. In colour differing greatly from its unmarked grey-tawny mother, it was of a bright yellowish fawn, variegated with dark brown, almost black, spots; and its long tail—just now curled round in front of it and twitching defiantly—was ringed like a raccoon's with the same dark shade. Merivale, full of benevolence, reached out his hand to it gently, with soothing words such as he might have used to an angry but favoured cat. He got a vicious scratch from the furry baby paw.
"Plucky little hellion," he muttered approvingly as he sucked the blood, with scrupulous care, from the wounds, realizing that those baby claws might be far from innocent hygienically. Then, taking off his thick jacket, he dexterously caught
