If, on the other hand, you stand by one of his runways while the dogs are driving him, expecting, of course, to see him come tearing along in a desperate hurry, frightened out of half his wits by the savage uproar behind him, you can only rub your eyes in wonder when a fluffy yellow ball comes drifting through the woods towards you, as if the breeze were blowing it along.  There he is, trotting down the runway in the same leisurely, self-possessed way, wrapped in his own thoughts apparently, the same deep wrinkles over his eyes.  He played a trick or two on a brook, down between the ponds, by jumping about on a lot of stones from which the snow had melted, without wetting his feet (which he dislikes), and without leaving a track anywhere.  While the dogs are puzzling that out, he has plenty of time to plan more devices on his way to the big hill, with its brook, and old walls, and rail fences, and dry places under the pines, and twenty other helps to an active brain.

First he will run round the hill half a dozen times, crisscrossing his trail.  That of itself will drive the young dogs crazy.  Then along the top rail of a fence, and a long jump into the junipers, which hold no scent, and another jump to the wall where there is no snow, and then—­

“Oh, plenty of time, no hurry!” he says to himself, turning to listen a moment.  “That dog with the big voice must be old Roby.  He thinks he knows all about foxes, just because he broke his leg last year, trying to walk a sheep-fence where I’d been.  I’ll give him another chance; and oh, yes!  I’ll creep up the other side of the hill, and curl up on a warm rock on the tiptop, and watch them all break their heads over the crisscross, and have a good nap or two, and think of more tricks.”

So he trots past you, still planning; crosses the wall by a certain stone that he has used ever since he was a cub fox; seems to float across an old pasture, stopping only to run about a bit among some cow tracks, to kill the scent; and so on towards his big hill.  Before he gets there he will have a skilful retreat planned, back to the ponds, in case old Roby untangles his crisscross, or some young fool-hound blunders too near the rock whereon he sits, watching the game.

If you meet him now, face to face, you will see no quiet assumption of superiority; unless perchance he is a young fox, that has not learned what it means to be met on a runway by a man with a gun when the dogs are driving.  With your first slightest movement there is a flash of yellow fur, and he has vanished into the thickest bit of underbrush at hand.—­Don’t run; you will not see him again here.  He knows the old roads and paths far better than you do, and can reach his big hill by any one of a dozen routes where you would never dream of looking.  But if you want another glimpse of him, take the shortest cut to the hill.  He may take a nap, or sit and listen a while to the dogs, or run round a swamp before he gets there.  Sit on the wall in plain sight; make a post of yourself; keep still, and keep your eyes open.