The yellow eyes gleamed evilly as Old Man Lynx caught sight of Frisky hanging there so helplessly, and his grizzled gray-brown fur rose along his spine.
Now he was wriggling along the ground flattened out like a snake. Now he was creeping up the tree trunk as silently as a shadow, and now he was gathering his legs beneath him for the leap that would land him squarely on Frisky Fox.
Frisky knew that one crunch of those gleaming teeth would end it all, so far as the Red Fox Pup was concerned.
But Frisky had a trick up his sleeve. His wits were still in working order.
"What a pity!" sighed Shadow Tail, the Red Squirrel, as he peered from his hole in the oak tree.
For Old Man Lynx had no objection what-ever to having fox for supper. The only objection he had to foxes was that he could never catch one.
For to look at poor Frisky Fox, his red-brown fur still soft and silky, his black feet tapering so delicately and his white throat exposed, it didn't seem as if he had a show in the world of escaping the huge cat.
But Old Man Lynx was stupid. He had nothing but his powerful muscles and his murderous teeth and claws, whereas Frisky had the nimble wit of one who lives by being both hunter and hunted.
And even as he waited for the leap for which he saw the Lynx preparing, he thought of a way out of both the grapevine and the danger he was in.
The next instant the Old Man gave one of his blood-curdling screeches, by which he so often paralyzed his prey with fright. Then he dropped to the branch just above, claws out for Frisky Fox.
But the very instant his heavy form touched the tangled vines, they gave way beneath him, and he, too, went crashing down in a net-work that held him fast. And, what's more, his huge weight loosed the vines that held Frisky prisoner.
But wait! With his great steel claws the giant cat wrenched himself free. Frisky made for a clump of greenbriar, for his leg had gone to sleep, and he couldn't run right till it had had time to wake up.
There was only one reason why he didn't--he had no great fondness for brambles. Cats, wild and tame, are mighty fond of their own skins, and Old Man Lynx was no exception. He'd have to be mighty hungry before he'd either scratch his fur out or get it wet.