ed Mr. Kirby inexorably.

"Yes!" yelled the old man, and slammed the door behind him.

"One minute, gentlemen," said Mr. Kirby, rising from the table and
gathering his papers and records together. "Just one more thing: If
anybody here has any evidence, or knows of any, tendin' to show that
this boy Davy Allen is not the proper person to turn over a houn' dog
to, I hope he will speak up." He waited a moment. "In the absence of any
objections, an' considerin' the evidence that's been given here this
mornin', I think I'll just let that dog go back the way he come. Thank
you, gentlemen. Court's adjourned!"

IX

THE PURSUIT

Cyclone Bill Simmons, burly, hard, and crimson of face, turned an
overheated runabout out of the blazing highway and into a grove of oaks
where stood the convict camp.

"All right," he said. "Get out."

Tom Abercrombie, face drawn, hands manacled, clambered out of the car.
He was a man of sixty or thereabout, long, lank, wiry, with a white
patriarchal beard and white beetling brows. His cheap suit of black and
his black slouch hat were covered with dust.

"This way," ordered Simmons.

As if he did not hear, the old man glanced about him: at the long,
weather-stained tent, open at both ends and at the sides, and showing
within two rows of untidy bunks; at the smaller tents that formed a
hollow square; at the shed for mules deeper within the grove; at the
small group of Negro convicts--cooks and trusties--who from near the big
tent stared curiously at him.

"This way," repeated Simmons harshly.

The lean cheeks flushed. The old man looked quickly at Simmons, who
during the twenty-mile drive from the county seat had not spoken a word
to him. Then, head bowed, he followed the man toward one of the smaller
tents.

It was plainly the guard tent; it stood at the entrance to the camp,
where a path turned in from the road. In front, under the shade of an
oak, were two or three splint-bottom chairs. And chained to the oak by a
staple driven into the trunk, drowsing in the heat of the summer
mid-afternoon, lay a bloodhound.

He had barely looked up when the car drove in. His heavy black body with
its tan belly and legs was completely relaxed, and he was panting
slightly. His head, which he held up as with an effort, was massive,
leonine, rugged, with chops and dewlaps that hung loosely down, giving
the impression of a detached and judicial attitude toward life. His
expression was grave, th