Billy, the Dog That Made Good 
held him, the dogs surged around, and now my view 
was clear. 
This is the moment of all in the hunt. This is 
the time when you gauge your hounds. This is 
the fiery furnace in which the metals all are tried. 
There was Old Thunder baying, tempting the Bear 
to charge, but ever with an eye to the safe retreat; 
there was Croaker doing her duty in a mere an- 
nouncement; there were the greyhounds yapping 
and nipping at his rear; there in the background, 
wisely waiting, reserving his power for the exact 
proper time, was the Terrible Turk, and here and 
there, bounding, yapping, insanely busy, was Silly 
Billy, dashing into the very jaws of death again‘ 
and again, but saved by his ever-restless activity, 
and proud of the bunch of Bear’s wool in his teeth. 
Round and round they went, as Reelfoot made 
his short, furious charges, and ever Turk kept 
back, baying hoarsely, gloriously, but biding his 
time for the very moment. And whatever side 
Old Thunder took, there Turk went, too, and Yancy 
rejoiced, for that meant that the fighting dog had 
also good judgment and was not over-rash. 
The fighting and baying swung behind a little 
bush. I wanted to see it all and tried to get near, 
but Yancy shouted out, “‘Keep back!” He knew 
the habits of the Bear, and the danger of coming 
135 
