The Flight Of The Fox

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the train slowed beside the woods, ready to enter the town of Skrimville. The door of one freight car stood open two inches, and in this crack a mouselike figure stood, knees bent, his body poised to jump. As the engine braked, his tail twitched and his ears flattened in readiness. He tossed out his canvas pack, watched it roll down the steep embankment, then suddenly he leaped after it, tail swinging.

He landed rolling, paws over whiskery face, and fetched up against some pinecones. He stood, brushed himself off, and watched the train roar by above him. When it had gone, dragging its noise behind, he retrieved his pack and climbed up the embankment, sneezing at the smoke and rubbing his bruised backside. "There ought to be a better way to travel," he muttered irritably. Well at least he'd had the boxcar all to himself, except for that stretch between Rutledge and Vicksville when those two tramps got on. Then he'd had to stay hidden under the straw so as not to call attention to himself. He'd like to have told those two what he thought of their tobacco chewing and spitting into the straw right beside him, but he never talked to people. Too risky.

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