"Stop an' think how foxes have holes in the ground, into which they c'n burrow when scared the least mite," explained Obed, readily, "and yuh'll see how hard it'd be for a stranger to lay hands on them. Now, in the daytime, if they came along, with me away from the place, a man with a rifle could knock over my pets as easy as turnin' his hand. But, all the same, I've fixed my traps. For one thing I'd like to find out jest who the thief is." Max noticed what emphasis he put on that last remark. He could see the customary twinkle in Obed's eyes give way to a sterner look; as though he had brooded more or less over this same subject. And Max himself nodded his head as though he might in a measure understand just how Obed felt. So they returned to the house. Bandy-legs at least rejoiced because with all those clever contraptions set, and waiting to give the intended thief a warm reception, it did seem as though there would be hardly any necessity for them to waste their precious time in sitting up and keeping watch, when they would be so much better off enjoying "balmy sleep," as he called it; and all sleep was along that order, according to the mind of Bandy-legs. Max and Steve trailed along well in the rear. This may have simply happened, but Steve twice stopped the other, and pointed out something he wished Max to see; so possibly the delay was intentional on his part. At least, he presently made a remark that would make it seem so. "It certainly looks as if Obed was a pretty ingenious maker of snares, that's sure, Max?" Steve was saying, significantly. "That's right, he is, Steve, and we must give him great credit for it, even if his traps fail to catch a thief in the act." "I was just thinking, Max," pursued the other, meditatively, "that it's evident this same Obed must have inherited that strain from a long line of trapper ancestors or progenitors; wouldn't you think so, too?" Max looked at his companion queerly, and smiled as he made reply. "You may be right, Steve, of course, but it strikes me Obed has an original streak of genius all his own, which doesn't have to depend on any inherited trait. Things are not _always_ what they seem in this world, you know." "Lookey here, Max, you've struck a scent which you don't think best to share with your boon companions, that's as plain to me as two and two make four. You've come to think a little the same way as Bandy-legs, perhaps, and suspect Obed of being more than he lets on? Is that it, Max? Do you really believe he's playing some sly trick on us? Is that yarn about Mr. Coombs all moonshine? Does this fur farm belong to some company, that Obed is working for? I wish you'd tell me what you've got in your mind, Max."