A trail was immediately struck by the first shock of corn—­this was the flint variety, and as such generally used for hominy throughout the entire south.

Away went the pack with a chorus of eager yelps, while the hunters trailed after them.

“No hurry, boys,” said the major, leisurely; “when they get him treed they’ll let us know.  Then’s the time for us to get near and decide whether the tree shall be chopped or a nigger climb up to knock the critter down to the dogs.  We never shoot a ’coon ’less the dogs prove unable to master him.”

“Then that does sometimes happen, sir?” questioned Thad.

“Occasionally, but not often.  A big ’coon may have unusually sharp claws and tear the dogs bad.  Then he jumps another tree before they can stop him.  After that we think it best to knock him down, rather than risk the lives of the dogs.  They’s plenty of ’coons, you see, but mighty few good dogs,”

Maurice smiled at the sentiment expressed, and yet it covered the ground from the standpoint of the man.  The ’coon’s opinion was not worth asking, it seemed.

Suddenly the yelping changed its tenor.

“Does that mean that the ’coon has got away?” asked Maurice.

“Not by a jug full.  He’s taken to a tree.  I reckon they hit it up so fast after him he couldn’t reach his own tree, so he bounced up the nearest one.  We’ll soon see,” said the major, as they moved in the direction of the clamor.

“What if he gets to his home tree?” continued Thad, who wanted to know it all, even though not from Missouri.

“That we call good luck, because, you see, boys, sometimes we get three or four varmints out of the one stand.  Why, I remember once we kept smoking ’em out till nine had been shook by the dogs.  It was what I called the colony tree,” laughed the planter.

Presently they drew close to the spot where the racket was being maintained by the dogs.  The ’coon was silent, but doubtless his eyes glowed maliciously as he squatted on a limb or in’a fork and surveyed the yelping crew below.

“I sees ’im!” exclaimed one of the negroes, pointing upward, ’right on dat ’ere limb nigh whar it fo’ks, sah.  Dat Mistah Coon, foh suah, ’deed it am!” exclaimed the discoverer.

“You’re right, Klem,” said the major, upon looking closely; “see, boys, you can detect the yellow gleam of his eyes as he watches us; but not a blessed movement does he make.  Hey, Klem, you saw him first, and it’s your chance to climb up and knock him out.”

The negro hardly waited for permission, knowing the rules under which his master usually hunted at night.  He had a club in his hand, which he transferred to his teeth as he started to climb.

The tree was rather large and would have taken too much time to fell for one coon; so another method was resorted to in order to get the animal down to where the eager dogs could pounce upon him.