They went out into the beautiful night. Nature was so hushed that the rythmic flow of the river could be heard. The stars seemed to shine through a gauzy sheen. In the air there was a faltering promise of the coming of winter. On a log, where the moonbeams fell, there lay a substance of greenish white. It was a dead tree-toad.
"Let's cross dis fiel'," said Alf, "an' skirt 'long de edge o' de woods whar de 'simmon trees grows. Whoop—ee! [calling to the dogs]. Git 'em down, ole boys. Whoop—ee, git 'em down!"
The old negro was joyous. He hummed old tunes. "I doan know whut make dem varmints so skace ter-night," said he.
"Knowing that you were coming after them, they have doubtless all left the country," John replied.
"I reckon you's hit it, sah; I reckon you has, caze when I starts out, suthin' mighty nigh sho ter happen. Whoop—shove 'em ole boys! Whoop, push 'em!"
"Hold on a minute," said Potter, stopping. "What is the cause of that bright light over yonder?"
"Bresh heep er burnin' whar somebody cl'arin' up new groun', I reckon," Alf replied.
"Not that," John remarked. "A brush heap would hardly send its light so high."
"Dat's er fack," the old man admitted.
"That is someone's house on fire," said Potter. "Who lives over that way?"