“Well,” remarked Mr. Locke, with a sigh, “I know'd I'd miss him if he ever got to the ferry here and found the boat on this side. Why, dang his black skin!” exclaimed the negro-hunter vehemently, as he glanced down the river and saw the bateau floating away in the distance, “he's gone and turned the boat loose! That shows we was a-pushin' 'im mighty close. I reckon you could a' seed 'im if you'd looked clos't when you first come up.” “No,” replied Joe; “he was out of sight, and the boat was drifting around the elbow. You were not more than five minutes behind me.” “Bless your soul, buddy,” exclaimed Mr. Locke, “five minutes is a mighty long time when you are trying to ketch a runaway.” So ended the race after Mink. To Joe Maxwell it was both interesting and instructive. He was a great lover of dogs, and the wonderful performance of Sound had given him new ideas of their sagacity. A few mornings after the unsuccessful attempt to catch Mink, a very queer thing happened. Harbert was sweeping out the printing-office, picking up the type that had been dropped on the floor, and Joe was preparing to begin the day's work. Suddenly Harbert spoke: “Marse Joe,” said he, “when you rid out ter de river Sunday, is you happen ter see er bateau floatin' 'roun'?” Joe looked at Harbert for some explanation of the singular question, but the negro pretended to be very busily engaged in picking up scraps of paper. “Yes,” said Joe, after a pause, “I saw a boat drifting down the river. What about it?” “Well, suh, I speck ef de trufe waz ter git out, dat dey wuz one er yo' ole 'quaintance in dat boat, an' I bet a thrip dat ef you'd a-hollered howdy, dey'd a-hollered howdy back.” Harbert was still too busy to look up. “Hit de funniest boat what I yever come 'cross,” he went on, “agwine floatin' long down by itse'f, an' den, on top er dat, come floatin' long back agin.” “How do you know about the bateau?” “Whiles you bin gwine'long de road, Marse Joe,” said Harbert, still making a great pretense of gathering up the trash in the room, “ain't you never is see all dem little birds flyin' 'mongst de bushes an' 'long de fence? Well, suh, dem little birds kin tell mo' tales ef you listen at 'em right close dan all deze yer papers what you bin printin'. Dey er mighty cu'us, an' dey er mighty cunnin'. Dey tole me lots mo' dan dat. Dey say dat de young Gaither boy took an' sont word ter Marse Tom Clemmons dat somebody done gone an' stole de bateau at de ferry, but yit when Marse Tom go out fer ter look atter his boat dar she is right spang whar he lef' 'er. Now, how you 'count fer dat?” “Then, Mink--” “Coon an' 'possum!” interrupted Harbert, as Mr. Snelson appeared in the doorway. “'Possum it is!” exclaimed that genial gentleman. “In season or out of season, I'll never refuse it.”