given the alarm than Romescos expresses superlative surprise.  He was standing in the centre of a conclave of men, whom he harangues on the particular political points necessary for the candidates to support in order to maintain the honour of the State; now he listens to mine host as he recounts the strange absence of the preacher, pauses and combs his long red beard with his fingers, looks distrustfully, and then says, with a quaintness that disarmed suspicion, “Nigger-like!-preacher or angel, nigger will be nigger!  The idea o’ makin’ the black rascals preachers, thinkin’ they won’t run away!  Now, fellers, that ar’ chap’s skulkin’ about, not far off, out among the pines; and here’s my two dogs"-he points to his dogs, stretched on the floor-"what’ll scent him and bring him out afore ten minutes!  Don’t say a word to Mack about it; don’t let it ’scape yer fly-trap, cos they say he’s got a notion o’ dying, and suddenly changed his feelins ‘bout nigger tradin’.  There’s no tellin’ how it would affect the old democrat if he felt he warnt goin’ to slip his breeze.  This child"-Romescos refers to himself-"felt just as Mack does more nor a dozen times, when Davy Jones looked as if he was making slight advances:  a feller soon gets straight again, nevertheless.  It’s only the difference atween one’s feelings about makin’ money when he’s well, and thinkin’ how he made it when he’s about to bid his friends good morning and leave town for awhile.  Anyhow, there aint no dodging now, fellers!  We got to hunt up the nigger afore daylight, so let us take a drop more and be moving.”  He orders the landlord to set on the decanters,—­they join in a social glass, touch glasses to the recovery of the nigger, and then rush out to the pursuit.  Romescos heads the party.  With dogs, horses, guns, and all sorts of negro-hunting apparatus, they scour the pinegrove, the swamp, and the heather.  They make the pursuit of man full of interest to those who are fond of the chase; they allow their enthusiasm to bound in unison with the sharp baying of the dogs.

For more than two hours is this exhilarating sport kept up.  It is sweet music to their ears; they have been trained (educated) to the fascination of a man-hunt, and dogs and men become wearied with the useless search.

Romescos declares the nigger is near at hand:  he sees the dogs curl down their noses; he must be somewhere in a hole or jungle of the swamp, and, with more daylight and another dog or two, his apprehension is certain.  He makes a halt on the brow of a hill, and addresses his fellow-hunters from the saddle.  In his wisdom on nigger nature he will advise a return to the tavern-for it is now daylight-where they will spend another hour merrily, and then return brightened to the pursuit.  Acting on this advice, friends and foes-both join as good fellows in the chase for a nigger-followed his retreat as they had his advance.

“No nigger preacher just about this circle, Major!” exclaims Romescos, addressing mine host, as he puts his head into the bar-room, on his return.  “Feller’s burrowed somewhere, like a coon:  catch him on the broad end of morning, or I’ll hang up my old double-barrel,” he concludes, shaking his head, and ordering drink for the party at his expense.