Joe Maxwell was very tired the day after his experience in the cabin with the deserters and the runaways, but he was not too tired to joyfully accept an invitation to visit Hillsborough with the editor of The Countryman. For months the town had been practically in a state of siege. As the war progressed, it had been made a hospital station. The old temperance hall and many of the other buildings in the town had been fitted up for the accommodation of the sick and wounded. There were also many refugees in Hillsborough from Tennessee and north Georgia. While the town was crowded, the small-pox broke out, and for a month or more the country people were prevented from going there. Guards were placed on all the roads leading into the town; but this was not necessary, for the country people were not anxious to visit the place when they learned of the small-pox. Hillsborough was placed under martial law, and a provost-marshal given charge of affairs. This was necessary, not only to control the small-pox, but to control the convalescing soldiers, among whom were some very rough characters.
Joe had stayed away so long that the town seemed to be new to him. The playground in front of the old school-house was full of dingy hospital huts; the stores with which he had been familiar had been put to new and strange uses; and there were strange faces everywhere. Squads of soldiers were marching briskly here and there; men with crutches at their sides, or bandages on their heads, or with their arms in slings, were sunning themselves on every corner. Everything was strange. Even the old china-trees under which Joe had played hundreds of times had an unfamiliar look. Dazed and confused, the lad sat down on one of the long benches that were placed along the wall in front of some of the stores. The bench was tilted back against the wall, and one end of it was occupied by two men who were engaged in earnest conversation. Joe paid little attention to them at first, but a word or two that he heard caused him to observe them more closely. One of them was Mr. Deometari, the Greek exile and lawyer; the other was a man whom Joe did not know. He noticed that, although Mr. Deometari wore a faded and shabby uniform, his linen was spotless. His cuffs and shirt-bosom shone in the sun, and the setting of a heavy ring on his chubby finger sparkled like a star. “He has forgotten me,” Joe thought, and he sat there determined not to make himself known, although he and Mr. Deometari had been great friends before the lad left Hillsborough.
“There’s another thing I’m troubled about,” Joe heard Mr. Deometari say to his companion. “Pruitt has come home.”
“What’s the matter with him?” asked the other.
“Deserted!” exclaimed Mr. Deometari.
“Well,” said the other, “it’s a big risk for a grown man to take. If he’s caught, he’ll have to pay the penalty.”
“No!” exclaimed Mr. Deometari, bringing his fist down on his broad knee. “He’ll be caught, but he won’t pay the penalty.”
“Why, what do you mean, Deo?” asked his companion.
“Don’t you know him?” exclaimed Mr. Deometari. “He belongs to the Relief Committee!”
“Phew!” whistled the other, raising both his hands in the air, and letting them fall again.
“Don’t you know him?” Deometari went on, with increasing earnestness. “He’s the man that shot the otter.”
Again Mr. Deometari’s companion gave a long whistle of astonishment. “Jack Pruitt?” he asked.
“The identical man,” said Deometari. “And do you know who this provost-marshal here is—this Captain Johnson?”
“Oh, yes,” said the other; “he’s the chap that stole the last dust of meal we had been saving to make soup for poor Tom Henderson.”
“And what happened then?” inquired Mr. Deometari, as if trying to refresh his own memory instead of that of his companion. “Didn’t Jack Pruitt give him a whipping?”
“Why, bless my life!” exclaimed the other. “What am I thinking about? Why, of course he did!” Saying this, Mr. Deometari’s companion rose to his feet, and caught sight of Joe Maxwell as he did so. Instantly he laid his hand on Mr. Deometari’s shoulder and remarked:
“It is fine weather for birds and boys.”
Joe was not at all disconcerted. He was not eavesdropping, though he was very much interested in what he had heard. The way to interest a boy thoroughly is to puzzle him, and Joe was puzzled.
“I saw Mr. Pruitt last night,” he remarked, and then, as his old friend turned, he said:
“How do you do, Mr. Deo? You haven’t forgotten me, have you?”
Joe advanced and offered his hand. As Mr. Deometari took it, the frown cleared away from his face.
“Why, my dear boy!” he exclaimed, pulling the lad toward him and giving him a tremendous hugging, “I am delighted to see you! I could count on my ten fingers the people who are left to call me Deo. And if I counted, my boy, you may be sure I’d call your name long before I got to my little finger. Why, I’m proud of you, my boy! They tell me you write the little paragraphs in the paper credited to ‘The Countryman’s Devil’? Not all of them! Ah, well! it is honor enough if you only write some of them. Forget you, indeed!”
Mr. Deometari’s greeting was not only cordial but affectionate, and the sincerity that shone in his face and echoed in his words brought tears to Joe Maxwell’s eyes.
“Blandford,” said Mr. Deometari, “you ought to know this boy. Don’t you remember Joe Maxwell?”
“Why, yes!” said Mr. Blandford, showing his white teeth and fixing his big black eyes on Joe. “He used to fight shy of me, but I remember him very well. He used to stand at the back of my chair and give me luck when I played draughts.”
Mr. Blandford had changed greatly since Joe had seen him last. His black hair, which once fell over his shoulders in glossy curls, was now gray, and the curls were shorn away. The shoulders that were once straight and stalwart were slightly stooped. Of the gay and gallant young man whom Joe Maxwell had known as Archie Blandford nothing remained unchanged except his brilliant eyes and his white teeth. Mr. Blandford had, in fact, seen hard service. He had been desperately shot in one of the battles, and had lain for months in a Richmond hospital. He was now, as he said, just beginning to feel his oats again.
“Come!” said Mr. Deometari, “we must go to my room. It is the same old room, in the same old tavern,” he remarked.
When the two men and Joe Maxwell reached the room, which was one of the series opening on the long veranda of the old tavern, Mr. Deometari carefully closed the door, although the weather was pleasant enough—it was the early fall of 1864.
“Now, then,” said he, drawing his chair in front of Joe, and placing his hands on his knees, “I heard you mention a name out yonder when you first spoke to me. What was it?”
“Pruitt,” said Joe.
“Precisely so,” said Mr. Deometari, smiling in a satisfied way. “John Pruitt. Now, what did you say about John Pruitt?”
“Late of said county, deceased,” dryly remarked Mr. Blandford, quoting from the form of a legal advertisement.
“I said I saw him last night,” said Joe, and then he went on to explain the circumstances.
“Very good! and now what did you hear me say about Pruitt?”
“You said he would be caught and not punished because he belonged to the Relief Committee.”
“Hear that!” exclaimed Mr. Deometari. “If any but these friendly ears had heard all that, we’d have been put on Johnson’s black list, and maybe we’d have been transferred from the black list to the guard-house. Now, then,” continued Mr. Deometari, “you don’t know anything about the Relief Committee, of course, and as you might be inquiring around about it, and asking what John Pruitt, the deserter, has to do with the Relief Committee, I’ll tell you. But, my dear boy, you must remember this: It’s not a matter to be joked about or talked of anywhere outside of this room. Now, don’t forget. It isn’t much of a secret; it is simply a piece of business that concerns only a few people. Do you remember reading or hearing about the retreat from Laurel Hill?” asked Mr. Deometari, moving his chair back and unwinding the stem of his Turkish pipe. “That was in the early part of the war, and it will never cut much of a figure in history, but some of those who were in that retreat will never forget it. In the confusion of getting away a little squad of us, belonging mostly to the First Georgia Regiment, were cut off from the main body. When we halted to get our bearings there were not more than a dozen of us.”
“Seventeen, all told,” remarked Mr. Blandford.
“Yes,” said Mr. Deometari, “seventeen. We were worse than lost. We were on the mountains in a strange country. Behind us was the enemy and before us was a forest of laurel that stretched away as far as the eye could reach. To the right or to the left was the same uncertainty. We could hear nothing of the rest of the command. To fire a gun was to invite capture, and there was nothing for us to do but push ahead through the scrubby growth.”
“The commissary was absent on a furlough,” remarked Mr. Blandford.
“Yes,” said Mr. Deometari, laughing. “The commissary was missing, and rations were scanty. Some of the men had none at all. Some had a little hard-tack, and others had a handful or so of meal. Though the weather was bitter cold, we built no fire the first night, for fear of attracting the attention of the enemy. The next day and the next we struggled on. We saved our rations the best we could, but they gave out after a while, and there was nothing left but a little meal which John Pruitt was saving up for Tom Henderson, who was ill and weak with fever. Every day, when we’d stop to breathe awhile, Pruitt would make Henderson a little cupful of gruel, while the rest of us ate corn, or roots, or chewed the inside bark of the trees.‘’
“And nobody begrudged Tom his gruel,” said Mr. Blandford, “though I’ll swear the sight of it gave me the all-overs.”
“Oh, yes!” exclaimed Mr. Deometari. “Somebody did begrudge Tom the gruel. One night this Captain Johnson, who is lording it around here now, thought Pruitt and the rest of us were asleep, and he made an effort to steal the little meal that was left. Well, Pruitt was very wide awake, and he caught Johnson and gave him a tremendous flogging; but the villain had already got into the haversack, and in the struggle the meal was spilled.”
Mr. Deometari coiled the stem of his pipe around his neck, and blew a great cloud of smoke toward the ceiling.
“But what about the Relief Committee, Mr. Deo?” inquired Joe.
“Why, to be sure! A nice story-teller am I!” exclaimed Mr. Deometari. “I had forgotten the Relief Committee entirely. Well, we went forward, growing weaker and weaker every day, until finally we came to a ravine.”
“It was a gorge,” observed Mr. Blandford, stretching himself out on Mr. Deometari’s bed, “and a deep one too.”
“Yes, a gorge,” said Mr. Deometari. “When we reached that gorge we were in a famished condition. Not a bird could be seen except crows and buzzards. The crows would have made good eating, no doubt, but they were very shy. We had lived in the hope of finding a hog, or a sheep, or a cow, but not a sign of a four-footed creature did we see. I don’t know how it was, but that gorge seemed to stretch across our path like the Gulf of Despair. Some of the men dropped on the ground and declared that they would go no farther.
“They said they had no desire to live; they were as weak and as foolish as children. Of the seventeen men in the squad, there were but five who had any hope, any spunk, or any spirit—Blandford there, Pruitt, Henderson, this Captain Johnson, and myself.”
“You ought to put yourself first,” said Mr. Blandford. “You were as fat as a pig all the time, and as full of life as a grasshopper in July.”
“This ravine or gorge,” continued Mr. Deometari, paying no attention to the interruption, “was our salvation. Mr. Blandford and Pruitt explored it for a little distance, and they found a little stream of water running at the bottom. It was what you call a branch. When they came back there was considerable disagreement among the men. The poor creatures, weak and irritable from hunger, had lost all hope, and would listen to no argument that didn’t suit their whims. There was this question to settle: Should we cross the gorge and continue in the course we had been going, or should we’ follow the gorge? It was a very serious question. We had not the slightest idea where we were. We had been wandering about in the mountains for eight days, and if we were going to get out at all it was necessary to be in a hurry about it.
“Then there was another question. If the gorge was to be followed, which way should we go? Should we follow the running water or should we go the other way? Blandford and Pruitt had already made up their minds to follow the running water, and of course I was going with them.”
“That’s because it was down hill,” remarked Mr. Blandford, laughing. “Deo always said his legs were never made for going up hill.”
“We had a great discussion. My dear boy, if you want to see how peevish and ill-natured and idiotic a grown man can be, just starve him for a matter of eight or nine days. Some wanted to go one way and some wanted to go another, while others wanted to stay where they were. Actually, Blandford and I had to cut hickories and pretend that we were going to flog the men who wanted to stay there and die, and when we got them on their feet we had to drive them along like a drove of sheep, while Pruitt led the way.
“Pruitt’s idea was that the running water led somewhere. This may seem to be a very simple matter now, but in our weak and confused condition it was a very fortunate thing that he had the idea and stuck to it. We found out afterward that if we had continued on the course we had been going, or if we had followed the gorge in the other direction, we would have buried ourselves in a wilderness more than a hundred miles in extent.
“The next day a couple of hawks and two jay-birds were shot, and, though they made small rations for seventeen men, yet they were refreshing, and the very sight of them made us feel better. The walls of the gorge grew wider apart, and the branch became larger as we followed it. The third day after we had changed our course Pruitt, who was ahead, suddenly paused and lifted his hand. Some of the men were so weak that they swayed from side to side as they halted. The sight of them was pitiful. We soon saw what had attracted Pruitt’s attention. On the rocks, above a pool of water, an otter lay sunning himself. He was as fat as butter. We stood speechless a moment and then sank to the ground. There was no fear that the otter could hear our voices, for the branch, which had now grown into a creek, fell noisily into the pool. If he had heard us—if he had slipped off the rocks and disappeared—” Mr. Deometari paused and looked into his pipe.
“Great heavens, Deo!” exclaimed Mr. Blandford, jumping up from the bed. “I’ll never forget that as long as I live! I never had such feelings before, and I’ve never had such since.”
“Yes,” continued Mr. Deometari, “it was an awful moment. Each man knew that we must have the otter, but how could we get him? He must be shot, but who could shoot him? Who would have nerve enough to put the ball in the right spot? The man who held the gun would know how much depended on him; he would be too excited to shoot straight. I looked at the men, and most of them were trembling. Those who were not trembling were as white as a sheet with excitement. I looked at Pruitt, and he was standing up, watching the otter, and whistling a little jig under his breath. So I said to him, as quietly as I could:
“‘Take your gun, man, and give it to him. You can’t miss. He’s as big as a barn-door.’
“Pruitt dropped on one knee, put a fresh cap on his gun, shook his hand loose from his sleeve, leveled his piece, and said, ‘Pray for it, boys!’
“Then he fired. He was so weak that the gun kicked him over. When I looked at the otter it seemed that the creature had never moved, but presently I saw a leg quivering, and then we rushed forward as fast as we could, the happiest lot of men you ever saw on this earth. The otter was shot through the head. The men were so ravenous they acted like maniacs. It was all that Blandford and Pruitt and I could do to keep them from falling on the otter with their knives and eating it raw, hide and all.
“But it saved us,” Mr. Deometari went on, “and we had something to spare. The next day we met with a farmer hunting his stray sheep, and we soon got back to the army. Four of us formed the Relief Committee before we parted. Blandford, Pruitt, Tom Henderson, and myself—the men who had never lost hope—promised each other, and shook hands on it, that whenever one got in trouble the others would help him out without any questions.
“Now, it isn’t necessary to ask any questions about Pruitt He deserted because his family were in a starving condition.”
“Yes,” said Mr. Blandford, bringing his heavy jaws together with a snap, “and I believe in my soul that Johnson has kept food and clothes away from them!”
“I know he has,” said Mr. Deometari, calmly. “Tom Henderson is one of Johnson’s clerks, and he keeps the run of things. He is to meet us to-night, and then you’ll see a man who has been blazing mad for three months.—Now, my boy,” continued Mr. Deometari, “forget all about this. You are too young to be troubled with such things. We’re just watching to see how Captain Johnson proposes to pay off the score he owes Pruitt. Should you chance to see John, just tell him that the Relief Committee has taken charge of Hillsborough for a few weeks. Another thing,” said Mr. Deometari, laying his hand kindly on the boy’s shoulder, “if you should be sent for some day or some night, just drop everything and come with the messenger. A bright chap like you is never too small to do good.”
The two men shook hands with Joe, and Mr. Blandford gravely took off his hat when he bade the boy good-by.
For a few days Joe Maxwell forgot all about Mr. Deometari, Mr. Blandford, and Mr. Pruitt. There was distinguished company visiting the editor of The Countryman—a young lady from Virginia, Miss Nellie Carter, and her mother, and some young officers at home on furlough. One of these young officers, a kinsman of the editor, brought his pack of fox-hounds, and arrangements were made for a grand fox-hunt. The plantation seemed to arouse itself to please the visitors. The negroes around the house put on their Sunday clothes and went hurrying about their duties, as if to show themselves at their best.
Joe was very glad when the editor told him that he was to go with the fox-hunters and act as master of ceremonies. Fox-hunting was a sport of which he was very fond, for it seemed to combine all the elements of health and pleasure in outdoor life. Shortly after Joe went to the plantation the editor of The Countryman had brought from Hillsborough a hound puppy, which had been sent him by a Mr. Birdsong. This Mr. Birdsong was a celebrated breeder of fox-hounds, having at one time the only pack south of Virginia that could catch a red fox. He was a great admirer of the editor of The Countryman, and he sent him the dog as a gift. In his letter Mr. Birdsong wrote that the puppy had been raised under a gourd-vine, and so the editor called him Jonah. Joe Maxwell thought the name was a very good one, but it turned out that the dog was very much better than his name. The editor gave the dog to Joe, who took great pains in training him. Before Jonah was six months old he had learned to trail a fox-skin, and by the time he was a year old hardly a morning passed that Joe did not drag the skin for the pleasure of seeing Jonah trail it. He developed great speed and powers of scent, and he was not more than two years old before he had run down and caught a red fox, unaided and alone. Naturally, Joe was very proud of Jonah, and he was glad of an opportunity to show off the dog’s hunting qualities.
In training Jonah, Joe had also unwittingly trained an old fox that made his home on the plantation. The fox came to be well known to every hunter in the county. He was old, and tough, and sly. He had been pursued so often that if he heard a dog bark in the early morning hours, or a horn blow, he was up and away. The negroes called him “Old Sandy,” and this was the name he came to be known by. Jonah when a puppy had trailed Old Sandy many a time, and Joe knew all his tricks and turnings. He decided that it would be well to give the young officer’s pack some exercise with this cunning old fox.
All the arrangements for the hunt were made by the editor. Joe Maxwell was to escort Miss Nellie Carter, who, although a Virginian and a good horsewoman, had never ridden across the country after a fox. The lad was to manage so that Miss Carter should see at least as much of the hunt as the young men who were to follow the hounds, while Harbert was to go along to pull down and put up the fences. To Joe this was a new and comical feature of fox-hunting, but the editor said that this would be safer for Miss Carter.
When the morning of the hunt arrived, Joe was ready before any of the guests, as he had intended to be. He wanted to see to everything, much to Harbert’s amusement. Like all boys, he was excited and enthusiastic, and he was very anxious to see the hunt go off successfully. Finally, when all had had a cup of coffee, they mounted their horses and were ready to go.
“Now, then,” said Joe, feeling a little awkward and embarrassed, as he knew that Miss Nellie Carter was looking and listening, “there must be no horn-blowing until after the hunt is over. Of course, you can blow if you want to,” Joe went on, thinking he had heard one of the young men laugh, “but we won’t have much of a hunt. We are going after Old Sandy this morning, and he doesn’t like to hear a horn at all. If we can keep the dogs from barking until we get to the field, so much the better.”
“You must pay attention,” said Miss Carter, as some of the young men were beginning to make sarcastic suggestions. “I want to see a real fox-hunt, and I’m sure it will be better to follow Mr. Maxwell’s advice.”
Joe blushed to here his name pronounced so sweetly, but in the dim twilight of morning his embarrassment could not be seen.
“Are your dogs all here, sir?” he asked the young man who had brought his hounds. “I have counted seven, and mine makes eight.”
“Is yours a rabbit-dog?” the young man asked.
“Oh, he’s very good for rabbits,” replied Joe, irritated by the question.
“Then hadn’t we better leave him?” the young man asked, not unkindly, “He might give us a good deal of trouble.”
“I’ll answer for that,” said Joe. “If everybody is ready, we’ll go.”
“You are to be my escort, Mr. Maxwell,” said Miss Carter, taking her place by Joe’s side, “and I know I shall be well taken care of.”
The cavalcade moved off and for a mile followed the public road. Then it turned into a lane and then into a plantation road that led to what was called the “Turner old field,” where for three or four years, and perhaps longer, Old Sandy had made his headquarters. By the time the hunters reached the field, which was a mile in extent, and made up of pasture-land overgrown with broom-sedge, wild plum-trees, and blackberry-vines, the dawn had disappeared before the sun. Red and yellow clouds mingled together in the east, and a rosy glow fell across the hills and woods. As they halted for Harbert to take down the fence, Joe stole a glance at his companion, and as she sat with her lips parted and the faint reflection of the rosy sky on her cheeks, he thought he had never seen a prettier picture. Jonah seemed to be of the same opinion, for he stood by the young lady’s horse, looking into her face, and whistled wistfully through his nose.
“That is your dog, I know!” said Miss Carter. “Why, he’s a perfect beauty! Poor fellow!” she exclaimed, stretching her arm out and filliping her fingers. Jonah gathered himself together, leaped lightly into the air, and touched her fair hand with his velvet tongue. Joe blushed with delight. “Why, he jumped as high as a man’s head!” she cried. “I know he will catch the fox.”
“I think we have stolen a march on Old Sandy,” said Joe, “and if we have, you’ll see a fine race. I hope the other dogs can keep up.”
“Ah,” said their owner, “they are Maryland dogs.”
“My dog,” said Joe, proudly, “is a Birdsong.”
By this time the hunters had crossed the fence, and the dogs, with the exception of Jonah, were beginning to cast about in the broom-sedge and brier-patches.
“I hope Jonah isn’t lazy,” said Miss Carter, watching the dog as he walked in quiet dignity by the side of her horse.
“Oh, no,” said Joe, “he isn’t lazy; but he never gets in a hurry until the time comes.”
The young men tried to tease Joe about Jonah, but the lad only smiled, and Jonah gradually worked away from the horses. It was noticed that he did not hunt as closely as the other dogs, nor did he nose the ground as carefully. He swept the field in ever-widening circles, going in an easy gallop, that was the perfection of grace, and energy, and strength. Presently Harbert cried out:
“Looky yonder, Marse Joe! Looky yonder at Jonah!”
All eyes were turned in the direction that Harbert pointed. The dog was hunting where the brown sedge was higher than his head, and he had evidently discovered something, for he would leap into the air, look around, and drop back into the sedge, only to go through the same performance with increasing energy.
“Why don’t he give a yelp or two and call the other dogs to help him?” exclaimed one of the young men.
“He’s no tattler,” said Joe, “and he doesn’t need any help. That fox has either just got up or he isn’t twenty yards away. Just wait!”
The next moment Jonah gave tongue with thrilling energy, repeated the challenge twice, and was off, topping the fence like a bird. The effect on the other dogs was magical; they rushed to the cry, caught up the red-hot drag, scrambled over the fence the best they could, and went away, followed by a cheer from Harbert that shook the dew from the leaves. The young men were off, too, and Joe had all he could do to hold his horse, which was in the habit of running with the hounds. The sound of the hunt grew fainter as the dogs ran across a stretch of meadow-land and through a skirt of woods to the open country beyond; and Joe and Miss Carter, accompanied by Harbert, proceeded leisurely to the brow of a hill near by.
“If that is Old Sandy,” said Joe, “he will come across the Bermuda field yonder, turn to the left, and pass us not very far from that dead pine.” Joe was very proud of his knowledge.
“Why, we shall see the best of the hunt!” cried Miss Carter, enthusiastically.
They sat on their horses and listened. Sometimes the hounds seemed to be coming nearer, and then they would veer off. Finally, their musical voices melted away in the distance. Joe kept his eyes on the Bermuda field, and so did Harbert, while Miss Carter tapped her horse’s mane gently with her riding-whip, and seemed to be enjoying the scene. They waited a long time, and Joe was beginning to grow disheartened, when Harbert suddenly exclaimed:
“Looky yonder, Marse Joe! what dat gwine ’cross de Bermuda pastur’?”
Across the brow of the hill slipped a tawny shadow—slipped across and disappeared before Miss Carter could see it.
“That’s Old Sandy,” cried Joe; “now watch for Jonah!”
Presently the hounds could be heard again, coming nearer and nearer. Then a larger and a darker shadow sprang out of the woods and swept across the pasture, moving swiftly and yet with the regularity of machinery. At short intervals a little puff of vapor would rise from this black shadow, and then the clear voice of Jonah would come ringing over the valley. Then the rest of the dogs, a group of shadows, with musical voices, swept across the Bermuda field.
“Oh, how beautiful!” exclaimed Miss Carter, clapping her little hands.
“Wait,” said Joe; “don’t make any noise. He’ll pass here, and go to the fence yonder, and if he isn’t scared to death you’ll see a pretty trick.”
It was a wide circle the fox made after he passed through the Bermuda field. He crossed the little stream that ran through the valley, skirted a pine thicket, ran for a quarter of a mile along a plantation path, and then turned and came down the fallow ground that lay between the creek and the hill where Joe and Miss Carter, with Harbert, had taken their stand. It was a comparatively level stretch of nearly a half-mile. The old corn-rows ran lengthwise the field, and down one of these Old Sandy came in full view of those who were waiting to see him pass. He was running rapidly, but not at full speed, and, although his tongue was hanging out, he was not distressed. Reaching the fence two hundred yards away from the spectators, he clambered lightly to the top, sat down on a rail and began to lick his fore-paws, stopping occasionally, with one paw suspended in the air, to listen to the dogs. In a moment or two more Jonah entered the field at the head of the valley. Old Sandy, carefully balancing himself on the top rail of the fence, walked it for a hundred yards or more, then gathering himself together sprang into the air and fell in the broom-sedge fully twenty feet away from the fence.
“Oh, I hope the dogs won’t catch him!” exclaimed Miss Carter. “He surely deserves to escape!”
“He got sense like folks,” said Harbert.
“He stayed on the fence too long. Just look at Jonah!” cried Joe.
The hound came down the field like a whirlwind. He was running at least thirty yards to the left of the furrow the fox had followed.
“Why, he isn’t following the track of the fox,” exclaimed Miss Carter. “I thought hounds trailed foxes by the scent.”
“They do,” said Joe, “but Jonah doesn’t need to follow it as the other dogs do. The dog that runs with his nose to the ground can never catch a red fox.”
“Isn’t he beautiful!” cried the young lady, as Jonah rushed past, his head up and his sonorous voice making music in the air. He topped the fence some distance above the point where the fox had left it, lost the trail, and made a sweeping circle to the right, increasing his speed as he did so. Still at fault, he circled widely to the left, picked up the drag a quarter of a mile from the fence, and pushed on more eagerly than ever. The rest of the dogs had overrun the track at the point where the fox had turned to enter the field, but they finally found it again, and went by the spectators in fine style, running together very prettily. At the fence they lost the trail, and for some minutes they were casting about. One of the younger dogs wanted to take the back track, but Harbert turned him around, and was about to set the pack right, when the voice of Jonah was heard again, clear and ringing. Old Sandy, finding himself hard pushed, had dropped flat in the grass and allowed the hound to overrun him. Then he doubled, and started back. He gained but little, but he was still game. Jonah whirled in a short circle, and was after the fox almost instantly. Old Sandy seemed to know that this was his last opportunity. With a marvelous burst of speed he plunged through the belated dogs that were hunting for the lost drag, slipped through the fence, and went back by the spectators like a flash. There was a tremendous outburst of music from the dogs as they sighted him, and for one brief moment Joe was afraid that Jonah would be thrown out. The next instant the dog appeared on the fence, and there he sighted the fox. It was then that the courage and speed of Jonah showed themselves. Nothing could have stood up before him. Within a hundred yards he ran into the fox. Realizing his fate, Old Sandy leaped into the air with a squall, and the next moment the powerful jaws of Jonah had closed on him.
By this time the rest of the hunters had come in sight. From a distance they witnessed the catch. They saw the rush that Jonah made; they saw Miss Carter and Joe Maxwell galloping forward; they saw the lad leap from his horse and bend over the fox, around which the dogs were jumping and howling; they saw him rise, with hat in hand, and present something to his fair companion; and then they knew that the young lady would ride home with Old Sandy’s brush suspended from her saddle.
These hunters came up after a while. Their horses were jaded, and the riders themselves looked unhappy.
“Did you notice which one of my dogs caught the fox?” asked the young man to whom the pack belonged.
“No, sir, I did not,” said Joe.
“I declare that is too funny!” exclaimed Miss Carter, laughing merrily, and then she went on to describe the chase as she saw it. The young man smiled as though he thought it was all a joke, and that night he called up Harbert, and offered him a dollar in Confederate money if he would tell the truth about the matter. Harbert told him the truth, but it was so unpleasant that the young man forgot all about the money, although a dollar at that time was worth not more than twelve and a half cents.
Miss Carter seemed to be almost as proud of Jonah’s performance as Joe was, and this made the lad feel very proud and happy. But, as they were going home, an incident happened which, for the time, and for some days afterward, drove all thoughts of Jonah and fox-hunting out of his mind. The hunters went back the way they had come, and shortly after they entered the public road they met a small procession that turned out to be very interesting, especially to Joe. First, there was a spring wagon, drawn by one horse and driven by a negro. On the seat with the negro, and securely fastened with ropes, was Mr. John Pruitt, the deserter. Behind the negro and Mr. Pruitt were two soldiers with guns, and three soldiers mounted on horses, and armed, acted as escort. The young officers who had been hunting with Joe Maxwell stopped the wagon and made inquiries until they had satisfied their curiosity. Joe would have spoken to Mr. Pruitt, but the latter, by an almost imperceptible movement of the head, seemed to forbid it. His face was as serene as if he had been on dress parade. As the wagon was about to move on, he spoke:
“Ain’t that the young chap that works in the printin’-office down by Phoenix school-house?” he asked, nodding his head toward Joe, without looking at him.
“Yes,” said one of the young officers.
“Well, sir,” said Mr. Pruitt, drawing a long breath, “I wish you’d please tell him to be so good ez to git word to my wife down in the Yarberry settlement that I won’t have a chance to come home in a week or more, an’ she’ll hafter do the best she kin tell I git back.”
Joe said he would be glad to do so.
“I ’low’d he would,” said Mr. Pruitt, still speaking to the young officer; “an’ I’m mighty much erbliged.”
Then the little procession moved on toward Hillsborough, and the hunters went homeward. Miss Nellie Carter was very much interested.
“He doesn’t look a bit like a deserter,” she said, impulsively, “and I’m sure there’s some mistake. I don’t believe a deserter could hold his head up.”
Joe then made bold to tell her what he had heard—that Mr. Pruitt and several other soldiers had come home because they heard their families were suffering for food. Miss Carter was very much interested, and wanted to go with the lad to visit Mrs. Pruitt.
“But I can’t go,” said Joe; “there’s nobody to do my work in the printing-office. I’ll send Mrs. Pruitt word to-night by some of the negroes.”
“No, no!” cried Miss Carter, “that will never do. I’ll see my cousin and tell him about it. You must go to-day, and I’ll go with you. Oh, it mustn’t be postponed; you must go this very afternoon! Why, what is this little newspaper you are printing out here in the woods? The woman may be suffering.”
Miss Carter saw her cousin, the editor, and lost no time in telling him about Mr. Pruitt and his family. The editor, who was one of the best of men, was so much interested that, instead of sending Joe with the young lady, he went himself, taking in his buggy a stout hamper of provisions. When they came back, Miss Carter’s eyes were red, as if she had been crying, and the editor looked very serious.
“I’m very glad you didn’t go,” he said to Joe, when Miss Carter had disappeared in the house.
“Was anybody dead?” asked Joe.
“No,” replied the editor. “Oh, no; nothing so bad as that. But the woman and her children have been in a terrible fix! I don’t know who is to blame for it, but I shall score the county officers and the Ladies’ Aid Society in the next paper. These people have been actually in a starving condition, and they look worse than if they had gone through a spell of fever. They are nothing but skin and bones. The main trouble is that they live in such an out-of-the-way place. The house is a mile from the public road, and hard to find.”
“I heard,” said Joe, “that the provost-marshal had something to do with holding back supplies that ought to have gone to Mr. Pruitt’s family.”
“How could he?” asked the editor; and then he added, quickly: “Why, of course he could; he is in charge of everything. He is judge, jury, lawyer, and general dictator. Who told you about it?”
“I heard it in town,” said Joe.
“Well, he’s a mean rascal,” said the editor. He bade Joe good-evening, and started in the house, but half-way up the steps he paused and called to the lad.
“Here’s something I forgot to ask you about,” he said, taking a letter from his pocket. “It is a note from Deo about you. What do you know about Deo?”
“About me?” said Joe. “I used to know Mr. Deo when I was a little boy.”
“Well, you are not such a big boy now,” said the editor, smiling. “Here is what Deo says: ‘You have a boy working in your printing-office who can make himself very useful in a good cause when the time comes. His name is Joe Maxwell, and he is a very good friend of mine. At least he used to be. Before long I shall send for him, and, whether I send in the day or in the night, I want you to let him come. If I were to tell you now what I want with him, you would laugh and say that all fat men are foolish. What I want him to do can be done only by a woman or a boy. A woman is not to be thought of, and I know of no boy I can trust except Maxwell. Just give him your permission beforehand, so that there will be no delay.’ Now what do you think about it?” inquired the editor.
“May I go?” asked Joe.
“That is for you to decide,” said the editor. “I have been knowing Deometari for nearly twenty years. He’s a good lawyer and a clever man. But, if you do go, be careful of yourself. Don’t get into any trouble. Tell Deo that all of us like you out here, and we don’t want any foolishness.”