“Yes; Brasfort’s on it now,” says Clancy, calling the animal by a name long ago bestowed upon it.
“He’s on it strong, Jupe. I can tell by the way he tugs upon the string.”
“All right, Masser Charle. Give him plenty head. Let him well out. Guess we can keep up with him. An’ the sooner we overtake the nigger whipper, the better it be for us, an’ the worser for him. Pity you let him go. If you’d ’lowed Mass Woodley to shoot down his hoss—”
“Never mind about that. You’ll see himself shot down ere long, or—”
“Or what, masser?”
“Me!”
“Lor forbid! If I ever see that, there’s another goes down long side you; either the slave-catcher or the slave.”
“Thanks, my brave fellow! I know you mean it. But now to our work; and let us be silent. He may not have gone far, and’s still skulking in this tract of timber. If so, he stands a chance to hear us. Speak only in a whisper.”
Thus instructed, Jupe makes a gesture to signify compliance; Clancy turning his attention to the hound.
By this, Brasfort is all eagerness, as can be told by the quick vibration of his tail, and spasmodic action of the body. A sound also proceeds from his lips, an attempt at baying; which, but for the confining muzzle would make the forest echoes ring around. Stopped by this his note can be heard only a short distance off, not far enough for them to have any fear. If they but get so near the man they are in chase of, they will surely overtake him.