swamp; the band took up the cry. From then until dark the glade
was musical with baying. At supper time they returned straggling,
their expression pleased, six inches of red tongue hanging from the
corners of their mouths, ravenously ready for supper.

Strangely enough the big white hares never left the swamp. Perhaps
the same one was never chased two days in succession. Or it is
possible that the quarry enjoyed the harmless game as much as did
the little dogs.

Once only while the snow lasted was the hunt abandoned for a few
days. Wallace Carpenter announced his intention of joining forces
with the diminutive hounds.

"It's a shame, so it is, doggies!" he laughed at the tried pack.
"We'll get one to-morrow."

So he took his shotgun to the swamp, and after a half hour's wait,
succeeded in killing the hare. From that moment he was the hero of
those ecstacized canines. They tangled about him everywhere. He
hardly dared take a step for fear of crushing one of the open faces
and expectant, pleading eyes looking up at him. It grew to be
a nuisance. Wallace always claimed his trip was considerably
shortened because he could not get away from his admirers.



Chapter XXXVI