Way-Atcha, the Coon-Raccoon 
it. And Pete ran, too, shouting encouragement, 
for all of this was in the plan. The Coon no doubt 
was running off, but soon the dog would find him, 
and then—oh, it never fails—the Coon climbs up 
the easiest tree, which means a small one always; 
the dog by yapping down below would guide the 
man, who coming up would shoot the Coon, which 
falling disabled would be worried by the dog, who 
thus has learned his part for future cooning, and 
thenceforth flushed with victory be even keener 
than his master for the chase. 
Yes, that was the plan; it had often worked 
before, and did so now, but for one mishap. Way- 
atcha did not climb a slender tree. As soon as 
he was far away, thanks to that fumbled chain, and 
heard the raging of the two behind, he climbed 
the sort of tree that in his memory had been most 
a thing of safety to him. The big hollow maple 
was the haven of his youth, and up the biggest 
tree in all the woods he clambered now. 
His foes came on; the dog was learning fast, 
was sticking to the trail. His master followed 
till they reached the mighty sycamore, and ‘‘Here,” 
said Howler, “we have treed him!” What the 
half-breed said we need not hear. He had brought 
his rifle, yes, but no axe. The Coon was safe in 
some great cavernous limb, for nowhere could they 
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