Andrew the Glad

In a few minutes from up the hill came another tumult, and Jake raised a

long shout of "two possums," which served to hasten the scramble of the

rest of the party through the underbrush to a breathless pace.

Another gray ball hung to another limb and this time the derisive Jake

succeeded in the shake-down and the bagging amid the most breathless

excitement. It was a sight to see the sophisticated little animal lie

like dead and be picked up and handled in a state of seeming lifeless

rigidity--a display of self-control that seemed to argue a superiority of

instinct over reason.

After this opening event the hunt swept on with a rapidly mounting count

and a heavier and heavier bag.

And, too, it was just as well that no one in particular, save the

defrauded Hobson, who was obliged to conceal his chagrin, was especially

mindful of the whereabouts of Caroline and the poet. In fact, it would

have been difficult for them to have located themselves in answer to a

wireless inquiry.

Andrew had started out from the hiding tree with the intention of cutting

across the trail of the hunters at right angles a little up the ravine,

and he had trusted to a six-year-old remembrance of the lay of the land

as he led the way across the frosty meadow and up the ridge at a brisk

pace. Caroline swung lithely along beside him and in the matter of fences

took Polly's policy of a hand up and then a high vault, which made for

practically no delay. They skirted the tangle of buck bushes and came out

on the edge of the cliff just as the hunt swept by at their feet and on

up the creek bed. They were both breathless and tingling with the

exertion of their climb.

"There they go--left behind--no catching them!" exclaimed Andrew. "No

possum for you, and this is your hunt! I'm most awfully sorry!"

"Don't you suppose they will save me one?" asked Caroline composedly, and

as she spoke she walked to the edge of the bluff and looked down into the

dark ravine interestedly.

"You don't want the possum, child, you want to see it caught. The negroes

get the little beasts; it's the bagging that's the excitement!" Andrew

regarded her with amused interest.

"I don't seem to care to see things caught," she answered. "I'm always

sorry for them. I would let them all go if I got the chance--all caught

things." A little crackle in the bushes at her side made her move nearer

to him.

"I believe you would--release any 'caught thing'--if you could," he said

with a note of bitterness in his voice that she failed to detect. A cold

wind swept across the meadow and he swung around so his broad shoulders

screened her from its tingle. Her eyes gazed out over the valley at their

feet.