A few seconds, and even the inexperienced Frank became satisfied of this fact. The hound now gave tongue almost continuously; the melodious notes grew louder every moment, and presently a rustling in the bushes told the boys that he was close at hand, and coming nearer with every bound.
Leon cocked one barrel of his gun, planted his feet firmly upon the ground, and just then a hound, which answered to the description he had given to his cousin, except in one particular, emerged from the thicket. He ran along with his nose close to the ground, wagging his tail vigorously, and so intent was he upon his work that he did not immediately discover the boys.
When he did become aware of their presence, however, he merely lifted his head long enough to give one look at them, and then took up his trail again. He was not at all afraid of them. Bugle—that was the name of the hound—knew everybody in the village; and everybody knew him, and liked him, too.
"That is the last trail you will ever follow, my four-footed friend!" Leon exclaimed, as he raised his gun to his shoulder and waited for the animal to come out from behind a fallen log, which just at that moment concealed him from view.
"Mind what you are doing," Frank whispered, laying his hand upon his cousin's arm, "That isn't the dog you want."
"Yes, it is," was Leon's reply.
"Why, you said Oscar's hound was half starved, and this one is as plump as a quail," protested Frank.
"I guess I know what I am about!" answered Leon impatiently.
He shook off his cousin's hand, drew his gun closer to his face, and just then the hound came in sight around the end of the log.