There was a mist of fog. It had begun to gather over the lowland. We had noticed it—a white blanket lying on the fields as we came along. It was now rising, but it came up slowly as though it were a sort of impalpable stratum formed mysteriously out of the earth and extending, under some mathematical direction, upward. It was like a piece of enchantment in the manner in which the thing arose. It now lay on the world about us extending to the macadam road. Mooney took a flash light out of his pocket. It was not the usual cylinder affair. It was, rather, a little squat lantern with a bull’s-eye bulb; thick—necessarily so, I imagine—for there was a powerful light concentrated on the small disc and it, therefore, required a considerable battery. He looked at the clock on the motor. “We shall have some time to wait,” he said, “but the fog may increase and we ought to look over the ground.” I got up to get out of the car, when he put his hand on my arm. “My son,” he said, “the bloodhound will be no friend of ours; let us think of him before he thinks of us.” He went on in a drawling voice. “Every little sheriff,” he said, “has fitted himself out with one of these trailing beasts.” Then he laughed. “They will be valuable, no doubt, for Little Eva and the ice, but for us they will hardly constitute a menace.” He reached into his pocket and took out a flask of what one might imagine to be brandy. “I have here,” he said, “a lotion to confuse his nose.” He drew out the stopper, poured the liquid into his hand, and rubbed it carefully over our shoes. I knew on the instant, by the odor, it was turpentine. Mooney was very careful about this thing. The whole of our shoes were carefully painted with the turpentine. He explained the theory of the thing while he was at work. “It makes me laugh,” he said, “to think how our brethren of the road have been chased about by dogs.... It is ridiculous to be chased by anything, especially a creature depending on its nose. It is the fine discriminating sense of odors that distinguishes the bloodhound. If our footweary predecessors had only thought about it they might have saved themselves the walking. “How does one destroy a delicate odor? “The solution is simple—by laying down over it a heavier, gross one. And here one must consider the instinct of the bloodhound. He will follow the trail of a man, that is, something living, a thing which he has observed to move, but he will not follow the trail of a pine tree. Turpentine, to the dog’s sensitive nose, is a tremendous stench that he will walk away from.” The road, as I have said, ran parallel to the track. We got out now and went directly across the field to the railroad. Here, close beside the track, Mooney set up a piece of rotten cross tie. It was to be a signal, as I later discovered; and we should return this way.