Mr. Snelson was so enthusiastic that he wanted to lead the way, but after he had fallen over a stump and rushed headlong into a brush-heap, he was content to give the lead to Harbert. Jim-Polk, who was bringing up the rear with Joe Maxwell, gave the latter to understand that even if they didn't catch a coon, they'd have a good deal of fun with the genial printer. “We'll have fun with him,” said Jim-Polk, “if we don't have to tote him home.” Mr. Snelson kept up a running fire of conversation, which was only interrupted when he stepped into a hole or a ditch. “I've often read of chasing the raccoon,” he said, “but it never occurred to me mind it was anything approachin' this. You're right sure it's the regular thing?” “You'll think so before you get back home,” remarked Jim-Polk. Harbert, knowing what these words really meant, laughed loudly. “Well, well,” said the genial printer, “if it's all a joke, I'd as well turn in me tracks and go home.” “Oh, no!” exclaimed Jim-Polk. “Don't go home. If you think it's a joke when we get through with it, you may have my hat.” “Dat's so,” cried Harbert. “Dat's so, sho! An' ef he wuz ter git de hat, I speck I'd ha' ter he'p'm tote it. Yasser! Dat what I speck.” The enthusiastic Mr. Snelson and Harbert were ahead, and Joe Maxwell and Jim-Polk brought up the rear. “I hope my dogs'll behave their selves tonight,” said young Gaither. “You went on so about Bill Locke's nigger dogs that I want you to hear Jolly and Loud when they get their bristles up. But they're mighty quare. If Loud strikes a trail first, Jolly will begin to pout. I call it poutin'. He'll run along with Loud, but he won't open his mouth until the scent gets hot enough to make him forget himself. If it's a 'possum, he'll let old Loud do all the trailin' and the treein'. You'd think there was only one dog, but when you get to the tree you'll find Jolly settin' there just as natchul as life.” The hunters had now come to the lands bordering on Rocky Creek, and, even while Jim-Polk was speaking, the voice of a dog was heard. Then it was twice repeated--a mellow, far-reaching, inspiring sound, that caused every nerve in Joe Maxwell's body to tingle. “Shucks!” exclaimed Jim-Polk, in a disgusted tone. “It's old Loud, and we won't hear from Jolly till the coon's track is hot enough to raise a blister.” Again Loud opened, and again, and always with increasing spirit, and his voice, borne over the woods and fields on the night winds, was most musical. “Oh, my goodness!” cried Jim-Polk; “if I had Jolly here, I'd kill him. No, I wouldn't, neither!” he exclaimed, excitedly. “Just listen! he's a-puttin' in now!” With that he gave a yell that fairly woke the echoes and caused Mr. Snelson to jump. “Upon me soul!” said that worthy gentleman, “ye'll never die wit' consumption. In me books I've read of them that made the welkin ring, but I've never heard it rung before.” “Shucks!” said Jim-Polk; “wait till Harbert there gets stirred up.”