Maurice smiled at the sentiment expressed, and yet it covered the ground from the standpoint of the man. The 'coon's opinion was not worth asking, it seemed.
Suddenly the yelping changed its tenor.
"Does that mean that the 'coon has got away?" asked Maurice.
"Not by a jug full. He's taken to a tree. I reckon they hit it up so fast after him he couldn't reach his own tree, so he bounced up the nearest one. We'll soon see," said the major, as they moved in the direction of the clamor.
"What if he gets to his home tree?" continued Thad, who wanted to know it all, even though not from Missouri.
"That we call good luck, because, you see, boys, sometimes we get three or four varmints out of the one stand. Why, I remember once we kept smoking 'em out till nine had been shook by the dogs. It was what I called the colony tree," laughed the planter.
Presently they drew close to the spot where the racket was being maintained by the dogs. The 'coon was silent, but doubtless his eyes glowed maliciously as he squatted on a limb or in'a fork and surveyed the yelping crew below.
"I sees 'im!" exclaimed one of the negroes, pointing upward, 'right on dat 'ere limb nigh whar it fo'ks, sah. Dat Mistah Coon, foh suah, 'deed it am!" exclaimed the discoverer.
"You're right, Klem," said the major, upon looking closely; "see, boys, you can detect the yellow gleam of his eyes as he watches us; but not a blessed movement does he make. Hey, Klem, you saw him first, and it's your chance to climb up and knock him out."
The negro hardly waited for permission, knowing the rules under which his master usually hunted at night. He had a club in his hand, which he transferred to his teeth as he started to climb.