The Possum 153 



neither was much to look at, but both had a 

 place in the hearts of their hunting country- 

 men. It was a near thing as to which of 

 them was the better, but nobody ever thought 

 of disputing that after Wrong the incompar- 

 able, the pair were the best possum dogs in the 

 county. 



All three knew their business to a nicety. 

 They understood what was up, in fact, as soon 

 as their masters begjan splitting wood for 

 torches. It was odd to see them then crouch at 

 the men's feet, looking up at them with plead- 

 ing eyes, whining a little and beating the 

 ground with their tails. They dearly loved a 

 night run, and sometimes, when the torches 

 were for fishing, they were left at home, 

 chained to the cabin walls. Hence the little 

 entreating whimpers, the crawling to the mas- 

 ter's feet to lay the head upon them. Wrong 

 had this much of real greatness — he never 

 thought himself indispensable. Instead he 

 begged as piteously to be taken as the awkward- 

 est and most unkempt puppy of the possum- 

 dog brotherhood. Before hunting nights Little 

 Mose always gave him extra feed at breakfast, 

 with only bread and milk at noon, and a hunch 

 of ash-cake for supper. He knew a dog must 

 have strength to run well, also that he would 

 never run his best nor trail his best with an 

 overfull stomach. 



