Fred Craven was a famous rifle-shot, and although he was a “towny,” he was superior in all manner of backwoods accomplishments to any boy of his age in the settlement—even to Walter and Eugene, who lived in the woods, and who had handled shot-guns and rifles all their lives. He was an enthusiastic and persevering sportsman, and boasted that he never came back from a hunt empty-handed. When the Club went out on their shooting excursions, Featherweight always strayed off by himself; and when he met his companions again at night, he had more game to show than any of them, sometimes beating all the rest of the Club put together. He thought almost as much of his pony as he did of any of his friends, and took great delight in training Flyaway, his favorite hound.
Flyaway was a remarkable dog in the estimation of his young master, although he did not stand very high in the opinion of the rest of the Club. He would hunt a covey of quails with as much skill as any old setter, would bring ducks out of the water as well as a spaniel, and fight a bear as bravely as any dog in Mr. Gaylord’s pack; but he had never hunted wild hogs, and Featherweight was anxious to see what work he would make at it. While the line was being formed that morning, and the boys and the negroes were about to advance toward the old bee-tree to attack the hogs which made their harboring-place there, Walter, who was a very prudent and cautious fellow, and seldom got into trouble, and who knew that Featherweight was sometimes disposed to be a little too reckless for his own good, thought it best to give him a word of advice.
“Now, Fred,” said he, “wild hogs are things not to be fooled with, and if I were in your place I wouldn’t put too much dependence on that animal there,” pointing rather contemptuously at Flyaway. “He is a very good turkey and deer dog, but when he presumes to hunt such game as this we are after now, he is getting above his business. A full grown wild hog is a terrible fighter.”
“Having hunted them a few times in my life, I am not ignorant of that fact,” replied Featherweight, assuming an air of importance that always made the Club laugh, and speaking with as much dignity as so jolly a little fellow could command. “While I entertain the very highest respect for your opinions in general, and acknowledge that you are a good judge of horses, and a passable hand at hunting small game, such as squirrels and quails, I must be allowed to remark that I think you know nothing whatever about dogs. ‘That animal,’ as you are pleased to call Flyaway, has no superior in this parish.”
“Well,” returned Walter, with a laugh, “keep close to us, and if you get into a scrape we can lend you a hand.”
But Featherweight, being plucky and independent, did not see fit to follow this advice. He kept his hound close at his side while the line was moving toward the old bee-tree, and when the hogs were started he picked out the one that he thought was the largest and ordered Flyaway to catch it. The hound sprang forward at the word, and in an instant both he and the hog were out of sight in the cane.
Featherweight’s pony had so often shown his heels to the other horses owned by the Club, that his master had become vain of his speed, and boasted that he could not be beaten by anything; but distancing a horse on a smooth road, or over a level field, where there were no greater obstructions than logs and low fences to be encountered, was one thing, and running a race with a wild hog through a thick woods, the hog having nearly a hundred yards the start, was another. The animal made astonishing headway, and for a long time the boy could not come within sight of him. The noise he occasioned in running through the cane, and the angry yelps now and then uttered by the hound, guided the young hunter in the pursuit; but although he urged his pony forward by voice, whip and spur, he could not lessen the distance between them.
“I never knew before that a hog could run so,” soliloquized Featherweight; “and I never thought either that Flyaway was a coward. He is keeping within sight of that hog all the time, but he won’t catch him. Rex would have had him by the ear long ago. Hi! hi! Why don’t you take hold of him there?”
The hound replied with a short, quick bark, and a commotion in the bushes told the young hunter that he was doing his best to obey the command. Featherweight yelled encouragingly and urged on his horse, which with a few more jumps brought his rider to the scene of the conflict—or, rather, to the spot where it had taken place; for when Featherweight reached it the struggle was over. Flyaway was a badly-whipped dog, and the wild hog was out of sight.