The Drummer and the ’Coon 
An Impromptu Hunt in which a Salesman Sees 
the Rough Side of Night Sport 
By AMBROSE TILLEY 
''Ilf ANT to go ’coon hunting?” A 1 Barnes 
asked me one evening just as I had 
finished taking a spring order from a 
storekeeper of a typical New England town. 
“When? Where?” I exclaimed, interested at 
once, the word ’coon arousing instantly my dor¬ 
mant sporting blood. 
“Oh, anywhere, round in the woods and 
swamps; just where you happen to strike one. 
We’re all ready now any time,” he replied, look¬ 
ing in the direction of a modest looking hound 
reposing beside a couple of lighted lanterns, a 
pair of telegraph-pole climbers, a hatchet, a light 
rifle, and Stanley Wight, a good-natured country 
boy, who held the hound by a small steel chain 
and was its sole owner. 
“All right,” I said. 
“Do you mean it?” returned Barnes with his 
dry smile, hardly expecting I would accept his 
invitation, as he probably asked me out of cour¬ 
tesy because I happened to be in the store as 
they were getting ready to start out. 
“Certainly,” I replied. 
“Hurry, then, and change them clothes.” 
“Oh, never mind—I’ll go just as I am,” I an¬ 
swered, a remark that caused a hearty laugh 
from the bystanders; the idea of a Boston drum¬ 
mer going ’cooning in a high collar and a four- 
button cutaway was too much for their risibles. 
I dismissed the liveryman who had brought me 
from the city, carried my traps over to the inn, 
registered for the night—it was about 8:30—and 
left my watch with the good-natured landlady. 
My extremities instead of being encased in a 
substantial pair of rubber boots were protected 
with a dainty pair of Bals—elegant things to go 
swamp hunting in. I willed Mr. C. my watch, 
money and samples in case I should not re¬ 
appear on the morrow, and he inwardly re¬ 
joiced that possibly he might very soon have 
one drummer less to worry him. Oh, vain de¬ 
lusion ! We offer the Encyclopedia Britannica 
Heraldi free for every drummer killed by ad¬ 
versity. We fatten on it. 
“Who’s that smooth-faced feller with the 
parlor shoes on ?” asked a granger. 
“He’s a runner from Boston,” another replied. 
“Guess he’ll git all the runnin’ he wants be¬ 
fore daylight.” remarked the town joker. 
“How much for the dog, Stan, before you 
start?” 
us, Barnes carrying the rifle and one of the lan¬ 
terns ; Stan leading, holding back the eager dog; 
myself carrying the other lantern, with the heavy 
steel climbers over my shoulders. Barnes is a 
character, standing over six feet tall, tough as 
nails, with long, thin, bony limbs, lantern jaws, 
sallow complexion, Abraham Lincoln dormant 
expression in his gray eyes, short bristling mus¬ 
tache, and nicknamed “Sliver,’’ “Slim,” “Lath,” 
“Clothes-pin,” “Guide-post,” or anything that 
suggests something abnormally thin. He works 
about the store all day, hunts all night 
and sleeps the rest of the time, is thoroughly 
posted on game, having hunted for twenty-five 
years, and hustles all over this part of the coun¬ 
try for grocery orders, ’coons and game birds. 
Stanley is a good-natured country boy, just 
old enough to vote, medium height, sturdily built, 
with an eager expression when on the qui vive, 
otherwise rather indifferent; has great natural 
hunting instinct and thinks more of Sport than 
any creature alive, not even excepting himself. 
The pup Sport is simply a jewel among his kind 
and well worthy the endearing expressions lav¬ 
ished upon him by Stan, and everyone who comes 
in contact with him. He is only two years old, 
black and white, looks like a large beagle, has 
a very full chest, strong, muscular body and rich, 
melodious voice; never runs off on a fox track; 
turns up his aristocratic nose at skunks, rabbits 
and woodchucks; is gritty in a fight and hangs 
to a ’coon track like a grocery drummer to Cape 
Cod. He is worth at this writing not less than 
a hundred dollars, but Stan would not part with 
him for Rockefeller’s millions. 
We took a road that skirted the Common, then 
due north for a mile or so, climbed a long hill, 
the trees meeting overhead, shutting out what 
little starlight there was, making the lights in 
the lanterns appear twice as bright and the vault 
of darkness all the blacker. We trudged along 
at a smart pace, Barnes and Stan smoking com¬ 
placently and discoursing on the sport in hand. 
“Ye see,” said Barnes, halting for a moment to 
kindle his corn-cob pipe, “it’s rather early just 
now for ’coons, and it’s pretty hard work fer 
the dog to track them on account of there being 
so much thick green grass and lots of leaves on 
the bushes; it holds the heavy dews at night and 
the water gits into the dog’s nose and bothers 
him. .Then when ye do git one he’s apt to give 
ye a hard run ’cos he’s in good trim, not bein 
very fat yet and his wind is good; an’ then again, 
ye can’t see him ’til yer most on top o’ him; and, 
too, he just as liv’s travel in the water as not, 
’cos it’s warm. He can whip blazes outen a dog 
in a stream an’ a fellet can’t get at him, an’ if 
he’s a young one his teeth are sharp and cuts 
a dog’s head all up. Big? Oh, yes, they run 
up to thirty pounds, but most we get are under 
fifteen. Strong? Well I guess. I’ve seen them 
as if he was stuffed. About now they git up 
in the largest tree they can find, lay along the 
top side of a limb and sleep all day. Later on 
they go into their dens under the ledges, and 
when real cold weather comes they sleep all the 
time, but if it should thaw they come out and 
prowl around some, but go in again pretty quick 
when it changes. They eat all kinds of berries, 
fruit, birds’ eggs, fish, and will risk anything to 
get into a patch of sweet corn. They generally 
have three or four young at a time, and if you 
happen to catch the whole family out, there is 
great sport, as they don’t scatter, but stick to¬ 
gether and generally go up the same tree, so 
ye— 
“Hello, Stan, where ’re ye goin’? I’m goin’ 
to strike in here. No, let’s go up to the north 
dens; we’ll git one there if anywhere.” 
“All right,” Stan agreed, “but see the pup; 
he’s struck something.” 
“Oh, it’s a fox, I guess,” said Al, quizzingly, 
whereat Stan got highly indignant that anyone 
should think his idol would notice a mean, skulk¬ 
ing fox’s foot track when out expressly for gamy 
’coon meat. 
“We’ll get one to-night, sure; jes’ look at that 
moon cornin’ up. Let’s cross in here,”, said 
Barnes, diving through the darkness on his left, 
leading the way over a stone wall into an old 
pasture which we traversed, thence into a large 
chestnut wood and up among rocks and boulders. 
We had hardly got into the thick of the forest 
when Sport jumped forward, put his nose hard 
down among the long grass and leaves and as 
Stan loosed the chain, bounded away into the 
darkness straight toward the North Den. 
“Sing to him, boy,” yelled Stan, excitedly rush¬ 
ing pell-mell over the rocks after him. 
“Wait here a minute,” called the cooler-headed 
Barnes, “until we can locate him better.” 
So we dropped down on the damp cool grass, 
listening rapturously to the dog singing away 
through the sombre woods, for music it is in¬ 
deed, as beautiful and harmonious as was ever 
chimed from bells or pealed from mellow organ. 
Suddenly the dog gave a few short, sharp quick 
snarls as if fighting something. “Hang to him, 
boy; speak to him, pup,” cried Stan, rushing for- 
“Say, Al, bet ye $10 ye don’t git a hair.” 
Amidst a shower of chaffing and good-natured 
badinage we struck out into the gloom; three of > k n0 ck over a dog twice their size, jes’ the same 
