6 
Forest and Stream 
THE RUNNING OF BLACK JOHN 
THE STAYING POWERS OF TWO GREAT HOUNDS ARE PUT 
TO TEST WHEN OLD RED IS STARTED IN MINGO SWAMP 
O NE morning last fall as I was 
looking over my mail, I found 
the following letter: 
Indiantown, S. C. 
“Dear Sir:— 
I hear that you have in your pack of 
dogs one that is considered fast. I also 
have one that / consider fast. Suppose 
we get them together? 
The Mingo section is about half way 
between us, and I’m told that foxes are 
plentiful down there. To add a little 
zest to the occasion, I will, if you say 
so. tie a new hundred dollar bill to the 
collar of Siren, my bitch, you doing the 
same with your dog, and we will run 
down on the following conditions: The 
dog leading by not less than one hun¬ 
dred yards at the end of the first hour 
after the “jump,” by not less than two 
hundred yards at the end of the third 
hour, and still leading, regardless of dis¬ 
tance, at the death, to take both dog and 
money from the loser. 
To insure fairness, you will select one 
man who knows your dog well—tongue 
and color, and I will do the same for 
mine. These two will select, at the 
place of meeting, a third who is thor¬ 
oughly familiar with the section of the 
proposed chase, to guide, and keep in 
touch with the dogs as often as neces¬ 
sary to decide the race. 
If you have any sporting blood in 
you, tie the “tin” to the dog, name the 
time and place and let’s turn ’em loose. 
Joe Shaw.” 
I scratched my head, and read the let¬ 
ter again. I am not a gambler, but his 
sarcastic “tie the ‘tin’ to the dog” hit me 
hard, and I fell for it, for I knew I had 
two good dogs, or, at least, / thought 
so. One was a blue-speckled bitch 
called Patty, the other a large black and 
tan, a cross between an English deer¬ 
hound and a bloodhound, that I called 
Black John. 
Now Black John was not over fast, 
but his staying powers I had, so far, 
never seen equaled. A friend on an ad¬ 
joining plantation had given him to me 
because the negroes on the place had, 
he thought, ruined him running rabbits. 
He had tried it with me the first night 
I took him out, but never again. I 
picked him up with a cowwhip I had 
carried for that purpose, and kept it up 
until he promised to quit, and he did. 
And so it happened that, being thwarted 
in his first love, he turned his atten¬ 
tion with zeal and fidelity to the pursuit 
of fox and deer. It was Black John I 
! would pit against his Siren. 
I wrote him the following letter: 
“Dear Sir: 
Replying to yours of the 3d inst. I 
will admit that I have one or two fairly 
good dogs. I will also admit that I 
By j. z. McConnell 
have yielded to the temptation to take 
both your “tin” and your dog. 
The terms named in your letter would 
seem to indicate unbounded faith in the 
staying powers of Siren as well as her 
speed, so suppose we change the terms 
somewhat, so as to make it the lead 
dog in a long chase? I have a dog 
named Black John that I think will be 
leading when the sun comes up, and 
still leading when it sets, should the fox 
be going still. If you are willing to 
wager on the dog ‘taking and holding 
the lead after three hours,’ should the 
chase go that long, meet me at Harvey 
Those who have followed a pack of 
hounds in full cry on a frosty moon¬ 
light night and have listened to the 
music of their voices will be glad 
to feel again the magic thrill as they 
read this story of a great race and 
a wonderful dog. 
■I1IIIIIII1IIIIIIIIIIIIIIM 
Nelson’s near the post office Tuesday 
night, October 15th at 8 o’clock and 
bring the pup. 
Yours truly, etc.” 
That last word would, I thought, fetch 
him, and it did. Two days later I got 
this terse reply: 
“Dear Sir:—I’ve never seen Siren 
drop out. Terms accepted. Will meet 
you time and place and will bring the 
‘pup.’ Yours, etc., Jas. Shaw.” 
I went out in the back yard and 
whistled for the dogs. Patty first and 
then Black John came running up and 
I looked them over. Neither too lean 
nor too fat—just right for running. I 
called Black John to me and said: 
“Old Boy, I’m going to pad your col¬ 
lar in a few days with some valuable 
material, and I want you to hold it. 
If you fail me now, you’ll never hear 
me call Black John any more.” 
He looked up at me, moving his head 
from side to side and wagging his tail 
as much as to say, “I don’t know that 
I understand what you say, but I’m al¬ 
ways ready when you say go.” 
'"TUESDAY eve came clear and cold. 
The fox hunt had been talked about 
for more than a week, and some of the 
men had gone down to Mingo that morn¬ 
ing to have their horses rested up for 
the hunt. Mine, an ugly little Texas 
brute with a glass eye, was good for 
forty miles between meals, so I did not 
set out until the afternoon. 
I had sent my dogs on ahead in a 
wagon with instructions to Nelson not 
to feed them until I came, as I wanted 
them to be fed very lightly before the 
start. Jim Sayers and Joe Thomas, two 
friends of mine in Mingo, had sent me 
word that they would bring their dogs 
and join the hunt. 
Soon after I got to Nelson’s the crowd 
began to gather, each man talking about 
the various dogs of his acquaintance; 
the speed of this one; the endurance of 
that one, the tongue of another one, 
“I tell you what, fellers,” spoke up 
Take Johnson, “you may talk about your 
fast dogs, your sticking dogs and your 
fine-blooded dogs, but when you want 
to hear music in the bunch, just listen 
for my dog Sandy; he’ll carry it to ’em 
all on the tongue.” 
“Shucks, Jake,” said John Morris, 
“Sandy’s tongue in the crowd we’ll have 
to-night will sound like a ten cent fife 
in Sousa’s Band.” 
A loud laugh followed this at Jake’s 
expense and he subsided. 
“How many of you have ever heard 
my dog, Black John, running?” I asked. 
Only two or three in the Mingo sec¬ 
tion had ever seen him in a chase. 
“Well,” I said, “if any of you have 
ever read ‘The Hound of the Baskcr- 
villes,’ by Conan Doyle, you will hear 
him to-night if we run.” 
In truth Black John’s tongue was, to 
me at least, his only defect. Deep- 
chested, powerfully built, he towered 
above the average hound as the mastiff 
over the spaniel and, once the wire 
edge was off and he had settled into his 
pace, his long, loud, wailing cry sounded 
almost uncanny. 
“Toot, toot, toot—too-o-o-o-t; toot, 
toot, tooooot.” The mellow notes of the 
huntsman's horn floated clear and sweet 
to us; then past us—on and on, and 
died away in the distance. The gallop¬ 
ing hoofbeats of horses drew nearer and 
nearer ’till, at the bend in the moonlit 
road, twelve horsemen rode into view, 
while just behind a motely crowd of 
dogs brought up the rear. 
“Hello, boys,” spoke up a strange 
voice. “I believe every mangy dog on 
the route has joined my pack as we came 
along.” 
“Wanted to see the fun, too, I guess.” 
Nelson knew every fox hunter in a 
radius of thirty miles. He called him 
up and introduced us. 
“Did you get my reply?” he asked. 
“Yes,” I answered, “and as the crowd 
is about ready to ride, let’s arrange the 
preliminaries.” 
It was agreed that Nelson should hold 
the stakes, as the dogs might get wet 
and ruin the money, and that Joe 
Thomas, Jim Smith and Nelson were 
to act as judges. The crowd gathered 
’round us. This was the first that some 
of them knew of the wager. 
“We are all here now and ready, 
where shall we put in?” asked Joe 
