On one occasion I had been over to see my Uncle Stephen, and as I was returning home Mike Laffan met me.
“Would you loike to be afther looking for a ’coon to-night, Masther Roger?” he asked. “Quambo says he can come; and Yelp and Snap are moighty ager for the sport.”
I at once agreed to meet my two friends, accompanied by my dog Pop.
Accordingly, at the time appointed, the day’s work being over, Mike and Quambo made their appearance at the hut; while running at their heels were their two dogs, who were soon warmly greeted by Pop.
Setting out, we took our way along the banks of the river, near which we fully expected to fall in with several raccoons. We had our guns, and were provided with torches and the means of lighting them. We had not gone far before we heard voices, and soon we were joined by three lads from the settlement, who had got notice of the expedition. As they had brought their dogs, we had a full pack of mongrels of high and low degree, but united by one feeling,—that of deadly enmity to raccoons.
On we went, while the dogs, who had just then scented one of their foes, yelled in chorus. Over huge logs and rotten trunks, through the brush and dead trees and briars, we went at full speed; and sometimes wading across bogs, sometimes climbing up banks, and occasionally tumbling over on our noses, we continued to make our way at the heels of the dogs, until old Quambo, waving his torch above his head, and suddenly stopping short, shouted out, “De ’coon’s treed!”
He had made a mistake, however, for the dogs bayed loudly and continued their course.
“Dat a mighty old ’coon,” cried Quambo. “He know what he about.”
The raccoon, if it had got up the tree, had come down again, and was still ahead. Some of the party were almost in despair; but I knew the habits of the creature too well not to feel sure that we should get it at last, so I encouraged my friends, while we dashed on as before.
Yelp and Snap, having kept well ahead of the other dogs, were now heard baying under a big tree, and no doubt remained that the raccoon had taken refuge amid its branches. Our difficulty was to get it down. As the others hesitated to encounter the fierce little animal amid the boughs, Mike, for the honour of “Old Ireland,” offered to make his way up. Without more ado, then, he got on Quambo’s shoulders, sprang to a branch within his reach, and was soon lost to sight among the foliage.