When Locke and young Gaither rode by they were joined by Joe Maxwell, and his company seemed to be very welcome, especially to the Gaither boy, who regarded the affair as a frolic. Mr. Locke was a man of very few words. His face was dark and sallow and his eyes sunken. His neck was long and thin, and Joe observed that his “Adam's apple” was unusually large. As the negroes said, Mr. Locke and his dogs “favored” each other. He was small and puny, and his dogs were small and scrawny. “Do you think you'll catch Mink?” asked Joe. Mr Locke looked at the lad almost pityingly, and smiled. “We'll git the nigger,” he replied, “if he's been seed sence Friday noon. We'll git him if he ain't took wings. All I ast of him is to stay somewheres on top of the ground, and he's mine.” “Why did the negro run away?” said Joe to young Gaither. “Oh, he can't get along with the overseer. And I don't blame him much. I told pap this morning that if I had to choose between Mink and Bill Davidson I'd take Mink every time. But the trouble with pap is he's getting old, and thinks he can't get along without an overseer, and overseers are mighty hard to get now. I tell you right now that when I get grown I'm not going to let any overseer bang my niggers around.” Mr. Locke said nothing, but Joe heartily indorsed young Gaither's sentiments. When they arrived at the Gaither place, Mr. Locke asked to be shown the house that Mink had occupied. Then he asked for the blankets on which the negro had slept. These could not be found. Well, an old coat would do--anything that the negro had worn or touched. Finally, a dirty, greasy bag, in which Mink had carried his dinner to the field, was found. This would do, Mr. Locke said, and, taking it in his hand, he called his dogs and held it toward them. Sound smelled it more carefully than Music. “Now, then,” said Mr. Locke, “where'bouts was he seed? At the hog-pen last Friday night? All right, we'll ride around there and kinder send him a message.” Joe was very much interested in all this, and he watched Mr. Locke and his dogs very closely. When they arrived at the hog-pen, the negro hunter dismounted and examined the ground. Then he spoke to his dogs. “Sound!” he exclaimed, sharply, “what are you doing? Look about.--Music! what are you here for?” The shabby little dog seemed to be suddenly transformed. He circled around the hogpen rapidly, getting farther and farther away each time. Mr. Locke never took his eyes from the dog. “It's cold--mighty cold,” he said, presently. Then he spoke to the dog again. “Sound! come here, sir! Now git down to your knitting! Come, knuckle down! Try 'em, old fellow! try 'em!” Thus encouraged, the dog, with his nose to the ground, went carefully around the hog-pen. At one spot he paused, went on, and then came back to it. This performance he repeated several times, and then began to work his way toward an old field, going very slowly and carefully.