Waddles’s fierce old enemy, Tiger, the miller’s cat, had been adopted from this race, and so constantly had Waddles, as well as Mr. Wolf and the smaller dogs, heard the cry of “cats!” and been called to hunt the enemy from a chicken coop or an orchard full of nestlings, that they regarded wildcats as lawful hunting. One thing, however, was a proof of the wonderful intelligence of the hunters; they knew perfectly well the difference between the pet cats of the neighbourhood and the wild tribe, and if, as happened but very rarely, in the heat of the run they made a mistake, after one experience and its punishment they never again bore the victim home as a trophy, as they would a woodchuck, muskrat, or weasel, but hid it carefully in bushes or tall grass, and pretended that the chase was a failure. But when the kill was satisfactory, no matter who was the catcher, Mr. Wolf always took it home to Miss Jule, who rewarded the hunters with petting and a plate of tidbits. Their hunting methods were also peculiar to themselves, and the labours were divided quite equally among the six. Waddles and Tip, the little spaniel, had the keenest noses and the best minds for planning strategy. Quick, the fox terrier, who was all that his name implied, added to the endurance and bound of a collection of steel springs, was the explorer of small holes and the pioneer of attacks upon burrows that must be dug out or chinks between rocks that must be explored. [Illustration] It was Quick, also, who spurred the flagging energy of the larger dogs in tiresome runs, though often to their hurt, as will be seen, and had generally managed to lead his friends into the few misdeeds of which they were guilty. Though Mr. Wolf appeared to be the leader because of his size and heavy weight, he was really quite subject to Quick’s commands, and the most confiding and intimate relations existed between the pair. They shared both bed and board, and it was a study in dog love to see the expression of impertinence that Quick usually wore change to one of complete adoration as he gazed up in the face of his big friend, standing on tiptoe to lick his nose. As to Colin, the big, blundering red setter, with the beautiful eyes and the silky hair, his use was as general encourager when the hunt flagged; for though in the course of a long life, and he lived into his fifteenth year, he never caught anything wilder than a frightened chicken or disabled rabbit, yet he was never discouraged, starting off each day with the joy of first experience, and if the party caught nothing, he would retrieve a stick of decayed wood, a bit of old leather, or even a spruce cone and carry it to Miss Jule on his own account.