THE COWARDLY COUGAR 



much has been written about him, but, next 

 to him, the most important and interesting 

 member of our party was Pot-hound, the dean 

 of the cougar pack. Pot is a sad-eyed old 

 canine, a veteran of many battles. His every- 

 day dress consists of a haphazard assortment 

 of liver-and- white spots, but on state occasions 

 he wears, in addition thereto, a silver-mounted 

 collar upon which is engraved his name and 

 address, together with the following epitaph: 



I have been at the killing of 450 lions. 



"Is that correct?" we inquired of Uncle 

 Jim. 



"Um-m! not exactly," he told us. "It's 

 nearer five hundred now. Old Pot will find 

 cougar where there ain't any." 



Fred and I exchanged apprehensive glances. 

 Every moment it looked more and more to us 

 as if we were in for a meeting with a mountain 

 lion in spite of anything we might do. Nor 

 could we poison the dog, for we had nothing 

 with us more deadly than Epsom salts. 



Uncle Jim has lived alone with his dogs 

 much of his time, and he has formed a habit of 

 conversing with them upon intimate subjects. 

 Flattered by our attentions, Pot-hound had 



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