At the store, that night, Rance Venner glanced up from his task of ordering supplies for the Stippled Silver Kennels and listened with sudden interest to the harangue of an oldster among the group around the stove. “I’m telling you,” Holt was insisting, in reply to a doubter, “I’m telling you I saw him as plain as I see you. Jet black he was, only his tailtip was white, and one of his hindfeet; and there was shiny grey hairs sticking out from his shoulders and over his eyebrows. He—” “Somebody’s black dog, most likely,” suggested the doubter. “Dog nothing!” snorted Holt. “I’ve killed too many foxes not to know ’em from dogs. This was a fox. A reg’lar ol’ he-one. A corker. And I’m telling you he was coal-black; all but the tip of his tail and them hairs sprinkled all over his mask and—” “Well,” soothed the doubter, seeking to calm Holt’s vexed vehemence, “I’m not saying there mayn’t be black foxes with white tails and white hindfeet and grey masks. For all I know, there’s maybe foxes that’s bright green and foxes that’s red-white-and-blue, or speckled with pink. There may be. Only nobody’s ever seen ’em. Any more’n anybody’s ever seen a black-and-white-and-grey one, till you seen that one to-day, Jeff. I—” Rance Venner came into the circle of disputants. He did not mingle with the folk of this village, six miles from his fox-farm. This was his first visit to the store. The emporium nearest his home had burned down, that week. Hence his need to go farther afield for supplies. “You say you saw a silver fox?” he asked excitedly, confronting Holt. Holt stared truculently at him; suspecting further banter and not relishing it from a stranger. “Nope,” solemnly spoke up the doubter. “Not silver. Rainbow-colour, with a streak of this here radium you’ve likely heard tell of. Jeff Holt don’t see queer things, often. But when he does, he sure sees ’em plenty vivid.” “My name is Venner,” went on Rance, still addressing Holt. “My brother and I run the Stippled Silver Fox Farm, up above Croziers. Two years ago a couple of our silver foxes got loose on us. They—” “Sure they wasn’t di’mond foxes?” asked the doubter, politely. The audience snickered at this scintillant flash of native wit. But Rance went on, unheeding. Briefly, he explained the appearance and general nature and value of silver foxes; and expanded upon the loss of the two that had escaped from his kennel. His oration gained scant personal interest; until he made a cash offer of $75 to any one who would bring him Whitefoot’s or Pitchdark’s pelt in good condition. He made an offer of $125 for either fox if captured alive and undamaged. At this point incredulity reached its climax among his hearers. But when Venner pulled twenty-five dollars from his hip pocket and deposited it with the postmaster-storekeeper in evidence of good faith, the sight of real money caused a wholesale conversion.