ut his appetite was whetted, not glutted. Scent or instinct told him
that pork, molasses, and other eatables were hidden in the bark hut.
Here was a golden opportunity for Mr. Coon. No one molested him.
Meditating a feast, he climbed to the roof, and began cautiously to
scrape off portions of the bark. The rising sun ought to have warned him
back to forest depths; but he persisted in his scratching, repeating now
and again a satisfied cluck.

His hole was made. His keen nose told him that pork was almost within
reach, when the bugle-call of his enemy--Tiger's challenging bark--smote
upon his ear. Guide and dog were opportunely returning to camp.

Of course, as soon as the marauder scrambled off the roof, Cyrus and the
boys sprang from their couch. Barefooted, and in night costume, they
were already at the door of the hut before Uncle Eb was heard booming,--

"Boys! Boys! Tumble out--tumble out! Dere's a reg'lar razzle-dazzle
fight goin' on heah. Tiger's nabbed de coon."

CHAPTER V.

A COON HUNT.

A razzle-dazzle fight it surely was! On one side of the camp, between
the camping-ground, which Uncle Eb had cleared with many a backache, and
the woods, was a narrow strip covered with a stunted, prickly growth of
wild raspberry bushes and tiny cherry-trees. These had sprung up after
the pines had been cut down, as soon as the sun peeped at the
long-hidden earth.

Into it the bare-legged trio dared not venture, knowing that they would
get a worse scratching and tearing than if the coon itself mauled them.

But they could see and hear a whirling, howling, clawing, spitting,
rough-and-tumble conflict going on in the midst of this miniature
jungle.

"Whew! Whew!" gasped Cyrus. "Here's your first sight of a wild coon,
boys. I wish to goodness it had been a different sight, but I suppose he
must pay for his thieving."

"Tiger'll make him do dat. Bet yer life he will! He's death on coons, if
ever a dog was," yelled Uncle Eb, gambolling with excitement, his eyes
bulging and widening until they looked like oysters on the shell.

The soft, battered, gray felt hat which replaced his fur cap in the
daytime surged off his gray wool, and frisked gently away towards the
camp-fire. There, coming in contact with a red ember, it scorched and
shrivelled into smoking, smelling ashes, all unnoticed in the tumult of
the fight.

Whirling round and round, now under, now over, dog and coon rolled
presently forth from the bushes