"There's been all kinds of coon dogs in these bottoms and hills, I
suppose, ever since white folks came here, but Dunwody, I'm telling
you the truth, that dog of mine--"
By this time he had fished out from his case a slender probe, which
he bent back and forth as he once more approached the table.
"There's wasn't anything he wouldn't run, from deer to catamount;
and, one day, when we were out back here in the hills--I don't know
but Eleazar here might remember something about that himself. . . .
_Hold on, now, old man_!"
The old doctor's forehead for the first time was beaded. He wanted
silver wire. He would have accepted catgut. He had neither. For
one moment, in agony himself, he looked about; then a look of joy
came to his face. An old fiddle was lying in the window. A
moment, and he had ripped off a string. In two strides he was back
at the dripping table, where lay one marble figure, stood a second
figure also of marble.
"We were just trailing along, not paying much attention to
anything, when all at once that _dog_.
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