FullReads

The question of concealing Don and his ragged ears came up. It was necessary to catch him and keep him from the house. We started up the slope after him. As we climbed the hill we heard them.

“Dee got a ole hyah now; come on,” exclaimed one or two of the younger negroes; but old Limpy-Jack came to a halt, and turning his head to one side listened.

“Heish! Dat ain’ no ole hyah dey ‘re arter; dey ‘re arter Marster’s sheep–dat ‘s what ’tis!”

He started off at a rapid gait. We did the same.

“Yep, yep! Oun, oun, oun! Err, err, err!” came their voices in full cry.

We reached the top of the hill. Sure enough, there they were, the fat Southdowns, tearing like mad across the field, the sound of their trampling reaching us, with the entire pack at their heels, the pointers well in the lead. Such a chase as we had trying to catch that pack of mischievous dogs! Finally we got them in; but not before the whole occurrence had been seen at the house.

The shouts that were borne to us, as rescuers began to troop across the fields, drove our hearts down into our boots.

The return to the house was widely different from the triumph of the out-going in the morning. It was a dejected cortege that wended its toilsome way up the hill. Uncle Limpy-Jack basely deserted us after getting the promise of our gold dollars, declaring that he “told dem boys dat huntin’ ole hyahs warn’ no business for chillern!”

We knew that we had to “face the condign.” There was no maudlin sentiment in that region. Solomon was truly believed to have been the wisest of men, and at least one of his decrees was still acted on in that pious community.

The black boys were shipped off to their mammies and I fear received their full share of “the condign.”

We were ushered solemnly into the house and were marched upstairs to meditate on our enormities.

We could hear the debate going on below, and now and then a gentle voice took up the cause. Presently a slow step mounted the stair and the door opened. It was a grave senior–owner of Don. We knew that we were gone.

“Boys, did n’t you know better than that?”

Three culprits looked at each other sideways and remained speechless. We were trying to figure out which was the more politic answer.

“Now, this is Christmas—-“

“A time of peace and good-will,” said Met under his breath, but loud enough to be heard.

“Yes–and that ‘s the reason I am going to appeal to you as to what should be done to you. Suppose you were in my place and I in yours, and you had told me never–never to take the pointers out to run hares, and I knew I was disobeying you, and yet I had done it deliberately–deliberately disobeyed you–what would you do?”

I confess that the case seemed hopeless. But Met saved the day.

“I ‘ll tell you what I ‘d do, sir.”

“What?”

“I ‘d give you another chance.”

“Hm—ah–ur—-“

It was, however, too much for him, and he first began to smile and then to laugh. Met also broke out into a laugh, knowing that he had caught him.

So peace and good-will were restored and Christmas really began.