“Sam’s standin’ to his waist in a sink-hole,” he said, “an’ skeered white-eyed. But he ain’t in no danger, the ivy’s so thick round the sink-hole. Bub nor Bugle won’t take holt o’ that thing. They prance all round him, much as the ivy’ll let ’em, an’ keep out o’ the way o’ his tusks, an’ that’s all. We got to have a dog that’ll take holt. Sam says fer me to send Ben down the mountain Pizen Branch way an’ git Jake Sutton’s ol’ dog, Drum. Drum’ll bring him out ef anything will.” “There’s Buck.” “Shucks, ef Bub won’t take holt we needn’t wait on Buck.” “What’s granpap doing?” “Nothin’ but squattin’ in the bottom o’ that sink-hole wishin’ he’s in prayer-meetin’.” Snead made his way up to the circle of silent watchers, and Ben was soon flying down the mountain Pizen Branch way. In ten minutes he would be at the foot, but he would have to return slowly by a winding trail, and it would be nearly an hour before Drum could be one of us. In the meantime Sam, with the two dogs, endeavored to keep the boar entertained. Suddenly there was a shriek. A dark body was thrown into the air and fell on top of a thick bunch of “ivy.” “The blood jest sprinkled,” said Sam afterward. “He’s killed my dog,” shouted Burl from the hillside. But Bugle had received only a skin wound and, scrambling down, crept with viscerated courage to his master. Sam kept on incessantly with the formula, “Sic ’im, Bub! Sic, sic, sic!” and finally called to Len: “Send Buck in here ’less ye want me to git tore up. Bub’s winded.” From somewhere up the hill Len unloosed Buck, who rushed for the thicket. His entrance was Wagnerian, with a sound that reached the spheres. I had crept forward until I could get black glimpses of the boar as he whirled about, charging at the agile Bub and missing him by a hair’s breadth. With the entrance of Buck he decided to run, and dashed along the “tunnel” that in happier days he had worn to his hiding-place. The dogs tumbled over each other and were slower in getting out. Sam appeared and shouted to the watchers above: “Tear along up there! Ef he gits round the mountain we might as well go home.” I was at granpap’s heels and going fine, when he fell. He wasn’t seriously hurt, but sat on a rock rubbing his ankle, and I was astounded at the imprecations which he dropped on that “b’ar devil.” It meant more to him than being out of the race. Life had beaten him and gone on, and he knew it. “Reckon they’ll say I done it a-purpose,” he said forlornly. “Oh, no, they won’t. Sam himself couldn’t have jumped that rock.” “I’ll set here till the pain gits meller.” We waited, and the tumult died away and with it my hope of witnessing the capture. After a little we heard a sort of scrambling in the bushes. “That’s Ag,” said granpap. “He’d git out o’ the run ef he had to break his neck fer it.” A moment passed and Snead joined us, slightly limping. “I was jumpin’ a blame rock, an’ it tumbled me off,” he said. “What’s the matter with the ol’ man?”