“Well, sir,” said Mr. Snelson, with a serious air, “if they’ve got wings, upon me soul, we should have fetched a balloon.”
When the hounds were trailing there was a mellow cadence in their tones which was not to be heard when they barked at the tree. They gave mouth more deliberately, and in a measured way.
When the hunters arrived the hounds were alternately baying and gnawing at the foot of the tree.
“Bark to bark!” exclaimed Mr. Snelson, with much solemnity. His little joke was lost on all save Joe Maxwell, who was too much interested in the coon to laugh at it.
Much to Harbert’s delight, the tree was not a large one, and he made immediate preparations to cut it down.
“Wait a minit,” said Jim-Polk. “This coon ain’t at home, and we’d better be certain of the tree he is in.”
“You must have been visitin’ him,” said the genial printer, “for how de ye know about his home, else?”
“Some of these days,” said Jim-Polk, laughing, “I’ll come to your house an’ stay to dinner, an’ tell you about how coons live in holler trees.”
“Fetch your dinner wit’ ye,” responded Snelson, “and ye’re more than welcome.”
Jim-Polk was too busy to make a reply. Holding the torch behind him, and waving it slowly, he walked around the tree. He appeared to be investigating his own shadow, which flickered and danced in the leaves and branches. Now stooping and peering, now tiptoeing and craning his neck, now leaning to the right and now to the left, he looked into the top of the tree. Finally, he exclaimed: