The rest of that day Peek devoted to a search for Victor. He sought him near the stable,—in the blacksmith’s shop,—in the market,—at the few houses which Antoine frequented; but no Victor could be found. At last, late at night, weary and desponding, Peek retraced his steps homeward; and as he took out the door-key to enter the house, the dog he had been looking for rose from the upper step, and came down wagging his tail, and uttering a low squealing note of satisfaction.
“Why, Victor, is this you? I’ve been looking for you all day.”
The dog, as if he fully understood the remark, wagged his tail with increased vigor, and then checked himself in a bark which tapered off into a confidential whine, as if he were afraid of being heard by some detective.
Victor was a cross between a Scotch terrier and a thorough-bread Cuba bloodhound, imported for hunting runaway slaves. He combined the good traits of both breeds. He had the accurate scent, the large size and black color of the hound, the wiry hair, the tenacity, and the affectionate nature of the terrier. In the delicate action of his expressive nose, you saw keenness of scent in its most subtle inquisitions.
Late as was the hour, Peek (who, in the event of being stopped, had the mayor’s pass for his protection) determined on an instant trial of the dog’s powers, for the exercise of which perhaps the night would in this instance be the most favorable time. He took him to Semmes’s office, and making him scent the lawyer’s glove, indicated a wish to have him find out his trail. Victor either would not or could not understand what was wanted. He threw up his nose as if in contempt, and turned away from the glove as if he desired to have nothing to do with it. Then he would run away a short distance, and come back, and rise with his fore feet on Peek’s breast. He repeated this several times, and at last Peek said: “Well, have your own way. Go ahead, old fellow.”
Victor thanked him in another low whine, uttered as if addressed exclusively to his private ears, and then trotted off, assured that Peek was following. In half an hour’s time, he stopped before a square whitewashed building with iron-grated windows.
“Confound you, Victor!” muttered Peek. “You’ve told me nothing new, bringing me here. I was already aware your master was in jail. I can do nothing for him. Can’t you do better than that? Come along!”
Returning to Semmes’s office, Peek tried once more to interest the dog in the glove; but Victor tossed his nose away as if in a pet. He would have nothing to do with it.
“Come along, then, you rascal,” said Peek. “We can do nothing further to-night. Come and share my room with me.”
He reached home as the clock struck one. Victor followed him into the house, and eagerly disposed of a supper of bones and milk. Peek then went up to bed and threw down a mat by the open window, upon which the dog stretched himself as if he were quite as tired as his human companion.