"Yes," said Bob, "we're going on a 'possum-hunt to-morrow night, and we want you and your best dog." "You shall have me! I r-remember last year when first I came I heard the dogs on the mountain, but then I had no kind fr-riends to make me the invitation." "It's a little early, but we want to be sure to have one before Mr. Wendell goes." "You go soon?" Von Rittenheim's interest was only a courteous expression of concern, but John, fretted by Hilda's alternate encouragement and coldness, was tormented by his nerves, and not in command of his judgment. He saw in the Baron's question a malicious pleasure in his prospective departure. "Yes," he said, "I must go soon, I'm afraid. You're playing in luck these days, old man. You gain what I lose--and the close season for moonshiners is coming on, now that the corn is ripe." Hilda, who did not understand a word he said, laughed softly, as if in amusement at his wit. Von Rittenheim, who had not been able to follow the colloquialisms, frowned at "moonshining," which rang out for his ears above all else. Sydney and Bob looked with horror at the sneering face before them. "John," said Sydney, sternly, "you forget yourself strangely." As they were about to start she leaned from her horse and gave her hand to Friedrich. "You have much to forgive me," she said. "For much have I to thank you," he returned. XXIII The 'Possum-Hunt Buzzard Mountain, wooded to the top, extends for two miles north and south. Its long, gradual slope is like the body of a dormant animal, rising from the sunken haunches over a long and flattened back, and falling again to the nose dropped sleepily between the outstretched paws. The meet for the 'possum-hunt was at its northern end, on the outskirts of the settlement. The run was to be along the crest towards the south, bringing the hunters out at the end of the ridge nearest their homes. The night was lighted by a youthful moon, not brilliant enough to dim the lustre of the stars, shining clear through the air. It was cool with the first touch of autumn; so cool as to invite to exercise, yet so warm as to make it a pleasure to be in the open. The hunters were in high spirits. The men from the hamlet about the post-office,--'Gene Frady and Alf Lance, Mitchell Robertson, the blacksmith, Doc Pinner, the carpenter, and a half-dozen more, with a boy to drive back the horses, were piled into a wagon. There were much pushing and scrambling for places, and many ejaculations of discomfort. "Git off mah feet, 'Gene." "Hang 'em outside, man. Ah gotter sit somewheres." "Ouch! What fool put rye-straw in here?" "Powerful penetratin', ain' hit?" "Now, look here, that dog's gotter run with the rest. They ain' no room for him in this wagon." "Cain' you-all make them horses o' yo's git along a little mo' lively, Alf? Mr. Baron'll 'a' cleaned the mountain o' 'possums befo' we git there."