This child"-Romescos refers to himself-"felt just as Mack
does more nor a dozen times, when Davy Jones looked as if he was
making slight advances: a feller soon gets straight again,
nevertheless. It's only the difference atween one's feelings about
makin' money when he's well, and thinkin' how he made it when he's
about to bid his friends good morning and leave town for awhile.
Anyhow, there aint no dodging now, fellers! We got to hunt up the
nigger afore daylight, so let us take a drop more and be moving." He
orders the landlord to set on the decanters,--they join in a social
glass, touch glasses to the recovery of the nigger, and then rush
out to the pursuit. Romescos heads the party. With dogs, horses,
guns, and all sorts of negro-hunting apparatus, they scour the
pinegrove, the swamp, and the heather. They make the pursuit of man
full of interest to those who are fond of the chase; they allow
their enthusiasm to bound in unison with the sharp baying of the
dogs.
For more than two hours is this exhilarating sport kept up. It is
sweet music to their ears; they have been trained (educated) to the
fascination of a man-hunt, and dogs and men become wearied with the
useless search.
Romescos declares the nigger is near at hand: he sees the dogs curl
down their noses; he must be somewhere in a hole or jungle of the
swamp, and, with more daylight and another dog or two, his
apprehension is certain. He makes a halt on the brow of a hill, and
addresses his fellow-hunters from the saddle.
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