“I hope my dogs’ll behave their selves tonight,” said young Gaither. “You went on so about Bill Locke’s nigger dogs that I want you to hear Jolly and Loud when they get their bristles up. But they’re mighty quare. If Loud strikes a trail first, Jolly will begin to pout. I call it poutin’. He’ll run along with Loud, but he won’t open his mouth until the scent gets hot enough to make him forget himself. If it’s a ’possum, he’ll let old Loud do all the trailin’ and the treein’. You’d think there was only one dog, but when you get to the tree you’ll find Jolly settin’ there just as natchul as life.”
The hunters had now come to the lands bordering on Rocky Creek, and, even while Jim-Polk was speaking, the voice of a dog was heard. Then it was twice repeated—a mellow, far-reaching, inspiring sound, that caused every nerve in Joe Maxwell’s body to tingle.
“Shucks!” exclaimed Jim-Polk, in a disgusted tone. “It’s old Loud, and we won’t hear from Jolly till the coon’s track is hot enough to raise a blister.”
Again Loud opened, and again, and always with increasing spirit, and his voice, borne over the woods and fields on the night winds, was most musical.
“Oh, my goodness!” cried Jim-Polk; “if I had Jolly here, I’d kill him. No, I wouldn’t, neither!” he exclaimed, excitedly. “Just listen! he’s a-puttin’ in now!” With that he gave a yell that fairly woke the echoes and caused Mr. Snelson to jump.
“Upon me soul!” said that worthy gentleman, “ye’ll never die wit’ consumption. In me books I’ve read of them that made the welkin ring, but I’ve never heard it rung before.”
“Shucks!” said Jim-Polk; “wait till Harbert there gets stirred up.”
It was true that Jolly, as Jim-Polk expressed it, had “put in.” The scent was warm enough to cure his sulkiness. Running in harmony and giving mouth alternately, and sometimes together, the music the two dogs made was irresistibly inspiring, and when Harbert at intervals lifted up his voice to cheer them on even Mr. Snelson glowed with excitement and enthusiasm.
“Now, then, Harbert,” said Jim-Polk, “you can light your carriage-lamps, and by that time well know which way we’ve got to trot.”
The torches were soon lit, one for Jim-Polk and one for Harbert, and then they paused to listen to the dogs.