Thus they worked toward the Widdy Baggs’s till they came to a dry brook bed.  Turk began at once to travel up this, while Caleb tried to make him go down.  But the Dog recognized no superior officer when hunting.  After leading his impatient army a quarter of a mile away from the really promising heavy timber, Turk discovered what he was after, and that was a little muddy puddle.  In this he calmly lay down, puffing, panting and lapping with energy, and his humble human followers had nothing to do but sit on a log and impatiently await his lordship’s pleasure.  Fifteen minutes went by, and Turk was still enjoying himself, when Sam ventured at last: 

“’Pears to me if I owned a Dog I’d own him.”

“There’s no use crowdin’ him,” was the answer.  “He’s runnin’ this hunt, an’ he knows it.  A Dog without a mind of his own is no ’count.”

So when Turk had puffed like a Porpoise, grunted and wallowed like a Hog, to his heart’s content and to the envy of the eight who sat sweltering and impatient, he arose, all dribbling ooze, probably to seek a new wallowing place, when his nose discovered something on the bank that had far more effect than all the coaxings and threats of the “waiting line,” and he gave a short bark that was a note of joy for the boys.  They were all attention now, as the old Hound sniffed it out, and in a few moments stirred the echoes with an opening blast of his deepest strain.

“Turk’s struck it rich!” opined Caleb.

The old Dog’s bawling was strong now, but not very regular, showing that the hunted animal’s course was crooked.  Then there was a long break in it, showing possibly that the creature had run a fence or swung from one tree to another.

“That’s a Coon,” said Yan eagerly, for he had not forgotten any detail of the other lesson.

Caleb made no reply.

The Hound tongued a long way off, but came back to the pond and had one or two checks.

“It’s a great running for a Coon,” Yan remarked, at length in doubt.  Then to Caleb, “What do you think?”

Caleb answered slowly:  “I dunno what to think.  It runs too far for a Coon, an’ ‘tain’t treed yet; an’ I kin tell by the Dog’s voice he’s mad.  If you was near him now you’d see all his back hair stannin’ up.”

Another circle was announced by the Dog’s baying, and then the long, continuous, high-pitched yelping told that the game was treed at last.

“Well, that puts Fox and Skunk out of it,” said the Trapper, “but it certainly don’t act like a Coon on the ground.”

“First there gets the Coon!” shouted Blackhawk, and the boys skurried through the dark woods, getting many a scratch and fall.  As it was, Yan and Wesley arrived together and touched the tree at the same moment.  The rest came straggling up, with Char-less last and Guy a little ahead of him.  Guy wanted to relate the full particulars of his latest glorious victory over Char-less, but all attention was now on old Turk, who was barking savagely up the tree.