“This way,” he said, veering left. “The smell of chicken.”
Down in the darkness, the foxes listened. Above them, the shriek of hydraulic shovels and the grumble of bulldozers. Boggis, Bunce, and Bean—one fat, one short, one lean—had declared war on a hole in the ground. Fantastic Mr Fox
Above, the farmers raged. Below, the feast began. And somewhere in between, a small, clever animal proved that you don’t beat a fox by burying him—you only make him dig more interesting holes. “This way,” he said, veering left
Then right. “Cider. Bean’s own.”