Part 10 (2/2)

A sudden change came over the spirit of old Boney--short for Napoleon Bonaparte. He understood the talk about c.o.o.ns as clearly as if he could speak the English language. He was in a quiver of eager excitement. He knew from the Boy's talk that he was going, too. He wagged his tail, pushed his warm nose under his little friend's arm, whining and trembling while he tried to explain what it meant to strike a c.o.o.n's trail in the deep night, chase him over miles of woods and swamps and field, tree him and fight it out, a battle to the death between dog and beast!

At two o'clock, before day, his father's voice called and in a jiffy he was down the ladder, his eyes s.h.i.+ning. He had gone to sleep with his clothes on and lost no time in dressing.

Without delay the start was made. Down the dim pathway to the creek and then along its banks for two miles, its laughing waters rippling soft music amid the shadows, or gleaming white and mirror-like in the starlit open s.p.a.ces.

In half an hour the stars were obscured by a thin veil of fleecy clouds, and, striking no trail in the bottoms, they turned to the big tract of woods on the hills and plunged straight into their depths for two miles.

”Hus.h.!.+”

Tom suddenly stopped:

Far off to the right came the bark of a dog on the run.

”Ain't that old Boney's voice?” the father asked.

”I don't think so,” the Boy answered.

The note of wild savage music was one he had never heard before.

”Yes it was, too,” was the emphatic decision. He squared his broad shoulders and gave the hunter's shout of answer-joy to the dog's call.

Never had the Boy heard such a shout from human lips. It sent s.h.i.+vers down his spine.

The dog heard and louder came the answering note, a deep tremulous boom through the woods that meant to the older man's trained ear that he was on the run.

”That's old Boney sh.o.r.e's yer born!” the father cried, ”an' he ain't got no doubts 'bout hit nother. He's got his head in the air. The trail's so hot he don't have ter nose the ground. You'll hear somethin' in a minute when the younger pups git to him.”

Two hounds suddenly opened with long quivering wails.

”Thar's my dogs--they've hit it now!” Dennis cried excitedly.

Another hound joined the procession, then another and another, and in two minutes the whole pack of eight were in full cry.

Again the hunter's deep voice rang his wild cheer through the woods and every dog raised his answering cry a note higher.

”Ain't that music!” Tom cried in ecstacy.

They stood and listened. The dogs were still in the woods and with each yelp were coming nearer. Evidently the trail led toward them, but in the rear and almost toward the exact spot at which they had entered the forest.

”Just listen at old Boney!” the Boy cried. ”I can tell him now. He can beat 'em all!”

Loud and clear above the chorus of the others rang the long savage boom of Boney's voice, quivering with pa.s.sion, defiant, daring, sure of victory! It came at regular intervals as if to measure the miles that separated him from the battle he smelled afar. He was far in the lead.

He was past-master of this sport. The others were not in his cla.s.s.

The Boy's heart swelled with pride.

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