The Shooting

"Well, my darling," said Mr. Fox. "What shall it be tonight?"

"I think we'll have duck tonight," said Mrs. Fox.

"Bring us two fat ducks, if you please. One for you and me, and one for the children."

"Ducks it shall be!" said Mr. Fox. "Bunce's best!"

"Now do be careful," said Mrs. Fox.

"My darling," said Mr. Fox, "I can smell those goons a mile away. I can even smell one from the other. Boggis gives off a filthy stink of rotten chicken-skins. Bunce reeks of goose-livers, and as for Bean, the fumes of apple cider hang around him like poisonous gases."

"Yes, but just don't get careless," said Mrs. Fox. "You know they'll be waiting for you, all three of them."

"Don't you worry about me," said Mr. Fox. "I'll see you later."

But Mr. Fox would not have been quite so cocky had he known exactly where the three farmers were waiting at that moment. They were just outside the entrance to the hole, each one crouching behind a tree with his gun loaded. And what is more, they had chosen their positions very carefully, making sure that the wind was not blowing from them towards the fox's hole. In fact, it was blowing in the opposite direction. There was no chance of them being "smelled out."

Mr. Fox crept up the dark tunnel to the mouth of his hole. He poked his long handsome face out into the night air and sniffed once.

He moved an inch or two forward and stopped.

He sniffed again. He was always especially careful when coming out from his hole.

He inched forward a little more. The front half of his body was now in the open.

His black nose twitched from side to side, sniffing and sniffing for the scent of danger. He found none, and he was just about to go trotting forward into the wood when he heard or thought he heard a tiny noise, a soft rustling sound, as though someone had moved a foot ever so gently through a patch of dry leaves.