“What’s to be done with it?” he asks himself. “I daren’t take it along. ’Twould be sure some day make a noise, and guide the nigger-hunters to my nest—I mustn’t risk that. To leave the dog here may be worse still. It’ll sure follow me toatin away its master, an’ if it didn’t take to the water an’ swim after ’twould know where the dug-out lay, an’ might show them the place. I shan’t make any tracks; for all that they’d suspect somethin’, down the creek, an’ come that way sarchin’. ’Twont do take the dog—’twont do to leave it—what will do?”
The series of reflections, and questions, runs rapidly as thought itself. And to the last, quick as thought, comes an answer—a plan which promises a solution of the difficulty. He thinks of killing the dog—cutting its throat with his knife.
Only for an instant is the murderous intent in his mind. In the next he changes it, saying:
“I can’t do that—no; the poor brute so ’fectionate an’ faithful! ’Twould be downright cruel. A’most the same as murderin’ a man. I wont do it.”
Another pause spent in considering; another plan soon suggesting itself.
“Ah!” he exclaims, with air showing satisfied, “I have it now. That’ll be just the thing.”
The “thing” thus approved of, is to tie the hound to a tree, and so leave it.
First to get hold of it. For this he turns towards the animal, and commences coaxing it nearer. “Come up, ole fella. You aint afeerd o’ me. I’m Jupe, your master’s friend, ye know. There’s a good dog! Come now; come!”
The deer-hound, not afraid, does not flee him; and soon he has his hands upon it.
Pulling a piece of cord out of his pocket, he continues to apostrophise it, saying: