Simon had described her as a beautiful, gentle animal, full of life and well-bred looking, but his imagination had been too active. Hence, when Dinah arrived, the old darkey was sorely disappointed, for she was skinny, raw-boned and dirty, her ribs prominent and her back too sharp. The boys laughed and jeered as Simon led her along the street. She seemed half-starved and tried to put her nose into everything. If she found a morsel to eat she gulped it down so greedily that the spectators roared with delight. But when safely within his own yard, the old negro made a thorough examination of his dog, and, after looking her over from nose-tip to tail, he spoke to himself as follows: “Dat ain’t no bad dog ef I’m a jedge. She’s got de same marks dat de ol’ houn’s had. I laks dem thin years, dat hump-back an’ dat long, keen tail. All she needs is somefin’ to eat an’ er little res’. Me an’ ole Suckie ’ll fetch her out. By de time de race arter Big Sandy comes off I’ll have her des right, an’ ef I ain’t mightily mistaken she’s gwine to sho’ dem yudder dogs de bottom uv her feets es she flies. Des es soon es she gits rested, I’s gwine to slip her off down to de crick an’ hear dat mouf. Ef it soun’s lak ole Bell, den I’ll bet on her sho’ nuff.” The tongue proved right. It was loud, clear and horn-like and could be distinguished in any pack. Simon was happy. His cup of joy was brimful when Mr. Williamson sent him word that he could join him for a chase the first good opportunity for a night hunt. The old darkey could hardly wait--he was so anxious for the hunt. When the eventful hour came, Simon, mounted on his trusty mule, Beck, with his master’s old horn on his back, and Dinah trotting behind, with head and tail down, overtook the other hunters just out of Graham, on the Haw River road. The night was fine, and the ground in first-class condition. The atmosphere was fresh and sweet, after a light shower, and the weeds and grass sufficiently damp to hold a scent. As Simon rode up, Mr. Williamson remarked: “Well, old fellow, if Dinah has the proper stuff in her, and we hit old Sandy, she will have an opportunity to do her best to-night, for the weather is ideal.” “Yes, sir; dat’s so; Mr. Fox’ll smell mighty good arter de little sprinkle. I ain’t sayin’ much erbout my dog yit, ’cause she ain’t never run but one or two foxes in her life, but I feels lak she wuz des gwine to fall in wid de res’ an’ do her part.” Some of the mischievous chaps in the party twitted the old negro about his hound, calling her “skinflint,” “meat-catcher,” “rabbit-chaser,” and the like, but he laughed and advised them to wait and see.