It was all over in less than half a minute.  I think Tom must have made a new record for himself in the running high jump when he broke away from his ring-tailed antagonist.  He struck out across the yard and landed midway up the clothes-post with a single bound.  And Mux?  He ambled on around the yard, as calm and unconcerned as if he had only stopped to scratch himself.

Much of this unconcern, however, was a quiet kind of swagger.  When he thought no one fiercer than a chicken or the humbled Mr. Tom was looking, he would shuffle across the yard with his coat collar turned up, his hat over his eye, his elbows angled—­just as if he had been born and bred on the Bowery instead of in the Bear Swamp.  He was king of the yard, but I could see that he wore his crown uneasily.  He kept a bold front, accepted every challenge, and even went out of his way to pick a quarrel; yet he quaked at heart continually.  He feared and hated the noises of the yard, particularly the crowing of our big buff cochin rooster and the screaming of the guineas.  This was one of the swamp-fears that he had brought with him and could not outlive.  It haunted him.  If he had a conscience, its only warnings were of coming noises great and terrible.

But Mux had no conscience, unless it was one that troubled him only when he was out of mischief.  His face was never so long and so solemn as when I had caught him in some questionable act or spoiled some wayward plan.

Mux, however, was possessed by a much stubborner spirit than this interesting mischief-devil.  Upon one point he was positively demented—­the only four-footed maniac I ever knew.  He had gone crazy on the subject of dirt, mad to wash things, especially his victuals.

He was not particular about what he ate; almost anything that could be swallowed would do, provided that it could be washed, and washed by himself, after his own approved fashion.

If I gave him half of my apple, he would squat down by his wash-tub and begin to hunt for dirt.  He would look the apple over and over, pick around the blossom end, inspect carefully, then pull out the stem, if there happened to be a stem, dig out the seeds and peek into the core, then douse it into the water and begin to wash.  He would rub with might and main for a second or two, then rinse it, take a bite, and douse it back again for more scrubbing, until it was scrubbed and chewed away.

Even when the water was thick with mud, this crazy coon persisted in washing his clean cake and cabbage therein.  Indeed, the muddier the water, the more vigorously would he wash.  The habit was a part of him, as real a thing in his constitution as the black ring in his fur.  It was a very dirty habit, here in captivity, even if it went by the name of washing.  Of course Mux could not be blamed for his soiled wash-water.  That was my fault; only I couldn’t be changing it every time he soaked up a fistful of earth in his