So he sat and smoked, while Sam vainly tried to get acquainted with old Turk; Yan made notes on some bird wings nailed to the wall, and Guy got out the latest improved edition of his exploits in Deer-hunting and Woodchuck killing, as well as enlarged on his plans for gloriously routing any Coon they might encounter.

By insisting that it would take an hour to get to the place, Yan got them started at nine o’clock, Caleb, on a suggestion from Guy, carrying a small axe.  Keeping old Turk well in hand, they took the highway, and for half an hour tramped on toward the “Corners.”  Led by Sam, they climbed a fence crossed a potato field, and reached the corn patch by the stream.

“Go ahead, Turk.  Sic him!  Sic him!  Sic him!” and the company sat in a row on the fence to await developments.

Turk was somewhat of a character.  He hunted what he pleased and when he pleased.  His master could bring him on the Coon grounds, but he couldn’t make him hunt Coon nor anything else unless it suited his own fancy.  Caleb had warned the boys to be still, and they sat along the fence in dead silence, awaiting the summons from the old Hound.  He had gone off beating and sniffing among the cornstalks.  His steps sounded very loud and his sniffs like puffs of steam.  It was a time of tense attention; but the Hound wandered, farther away, and even his noisy steps were lost.

They had sat for two long minutes, when a low yelp from a distant part of the field, then a loud “bow-wow" from the Hound, set Yan’s heart jumping.

“Game afoot,” said Sam in a low voice.

“Bet I heered him first,” piped Guy.

Yan’s first thought was to rush pell-mell after the Dog.  He had often read of the hunt following furiously the baying of the Hounds, but Caleb restrained him.

“Hold on, boy; plenty of time.  Don’t know yet what it is.”

For Turk, like most frontier Hounds, would run almost any trail—­had even been accused of running on his own—­and it rested with those who knew him best to discover from his peculiar style of tonguing just what the game might be.  But they waited long and patiently without getting another bay from the Hound.  Presently a rustling was heard and Turk came up to his master and lay down at his feet.

“Go ahead, Turk, put him up,” but the Dog stirred not.  “Go ahead,” and Caleb gave him a rap with a small stick.  The Dog dodged away, but lay down again, panting.

“What was it, Mr. Clark?” demanded Yan.

“Don’t hardly know.  Maybe he only spiked himself on a snag.  But this is sure; there’s no Coons here to-night.  There won’t be after this.  We come too early, and it’s too hot for the Dog, anyway.”

“We could cross the creek and go into Boyle’s bush,” suggested the Woodpecker.  “We’re like to strike anything there.  Larry de Neuville swears he saw a Unicorn there the night he came back from Garney’s wake.”