he took the left foreleg in his hand, testing it with deft fingers. No bones were broken. Bearing down upon the trap with his knees, he drew it off as the steel jaws opened, and tossed it behind him.
Then he stepped back five paces and sat down in the grass.
For five minutes, perhaps, the lynx lay still. It had been very close to death and its strength came back very slowly. Gradually, however, its breathing became more regular and presently it raised its head slowly and weakly, then struggled to its feet.
A half minute it stood, swaying precariously, head hanging low, eyes still fixed on the boy's face. There was no fierceness in them: but the whiskered jaws were still red with the Airedale's blood, and instantly the boy's mind went back to the murdered fawn. His hand stole towards his gun, but stopped halfway.
"Good-by again, Lynx Lucifer," he said. "Don't ever let me get another sight of you along a gun barrel."
As though roused by the words, Byng turned and tottered on three legs across the savannah towards the friendly green coverts of the sweet-gum swamp.
