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 well. While he had been prowling about the farmhouse in question picking up his chicken, the hounds had picked up his fresh track where he had crossed the road and came after him full cry. The club had also deployed along the roadway, for they knew Redcoat would have to cross it to get back to his mountain, to which refuge he always fled when hard pressed. So, the roadway was picketed with men armed with shotguns, one every forty rods, and they stretched out for nearly two miles, so the culprit was seemingly cut off from his retreat.

Redcoat heard the pack afar off. It was a clear beautiful morning and sound carried a long way. He knew at once that it would be a long hard race. For the first quarter of an hour he clung stubbornly to his chicken as his Thanksgiving dinner had cost him much trouble. But finally seeing that it weighted him down, and that the running was very hard, he hid it in a clump of bushes and gave all his attention to extricating himself from his dilemma. He