an manage the untamed and strapping youths of a winter school in
Hoopole County has gone far toward learning one of the hardest of
lessons. And in Ralph's time, things were worse than they are now. The
older son of Mr. Means was called Bud Means. What his real name was,
Ralph could not find out, for in many of these families the nickname of
"Bud" given to the oldest boy, and that of "Sis," which is the
birth-right of the oldest girl, completely bury the proper Christian
name. Ralph saw his first strategic point, which was to capture Bud
Means.

After supper, the boys began to get ready for something. Bull stuck up
his ears in a dignified way, and the three or four yellow curs who were
Bull's satellites yelped delightedly and discordantly.

"Bill," said Bud Means to his brother, "ax the master ef he'd like to
hunt coons. I'd like to take the starch out uv the stuck-up feller."

"'Nough said[3]," was Bill's reply.

"You durn't[4] do it," said Bud.

"I don't take no sech a dare[5]," returned Bill, and walked down to the
gate, by which Ralph stood watching the stars come out, and half wishing
he had never seen Flat Creek.

"I say, mister," began Bill, "mister, they's a coon what's been a eatin'
our chickens lately, and we're goin' to try to ketch[6] the varmint.
You wouldn't like to take a coon hunt nor nothin', would you?"

"Why, yes," said Ralph, "there's nothing I should like better, if I
could only be sure Bull wouldn't mistake me for the coon."

And so, as a matter of policy, Ralph dragged his tired legs eight or ten
miles, on hill and in hollow, after Bud, and Bill, and Bull, and the
coon. But the raccoon[7] climbed a tree. The boys got into a quarrel
about whose business it was to have brought the axe, and who was to
blame that the tree could not be felled. Now, if there was anything
Ralph's muscles were good for, it was climbing. So, asking Bud to give
him a start, he soon reached the limb above the one on which the raccoon
was. Ralph did not know how ugly a customer a raccoon can be, and so
got credit for more courage than he had. With much peril to his legs
from the raccoon's teeth, he succeeded in shaking the poor creature off
among the yelping brutes and yelling boys. Ralph could not help
sympathizing with the hunted animal, which sold its life as dearly as
possible, giving the dogs many a scratch and bite. It seemed to him that
he was like the raccoon, precipitated into the midst of a party of dogs
who