Another hound joined the procession, then another and another, and in two minutes the whole pack of eight were in full cry.
Again the hunter's deep voice rang his wild cheer through the woods and every dog raised his answering cry a note higher.
"Ain't that music!" Tom cried in ecstacy.
They stood and listened. The dogs were still in the woods and with each yelp were coming nearer. Evidently the trail led toward them, but in the rear and almost toward the exact spot at which they had entered the forest.
"Just listen at old Boney!" the Boy cried. "I can tell him now. He can beat 'em all!"
Loud and clear above the chorus of the others rang the long savage boom of Boney's voice, quivering with passion, defiant, daring, sure of victory! It came at regular intervals as if to measure the miles that separated him from the battle he smelled afar. He was far in the lead. He was past-master of this sport. The others were not in his class.
The Boy's heart swelled with pride.
"Old Boney's showin' 'em all the way!" he exclaimed triumphantly.
"Yer can bet he always does that, Sonny!" the father answered. "That's a hot trail. Nigh ez I can figger we're goin' ter have some fun. There's more'n one coon travelin' over that ground."
"How can you tell?" Dennis asked incredulously.