late meal, especially by the odor of flapjacks frying in pork fat, had
stolen from cover after the departure of his natural enemy, the dog.

Finding the coast clear and the camp unguarded, he made himself quietly
at home, rooted among some potato parings which the guide had thrown
aside a day or two before, devoured a cold flapjack, and cleaned the
camp frying-pan as it had never been cleaned before, with his tongue.
But his appetite was whetted, not glutted. Scent or instinct told him
that pork, molasses, and other eatables were hidden in the bark hut.
Here was a golden opportunity for Mr. Coon. No one molested him.
Meditating a feast, he climbed to the roof, and began cautiously to
scrape off portions of the bark. The rising sun ought to have warned him
back to forest depths; but he persisted in his scratching, repeating now
and again a satisfied cluck.

His hole was made. His keen nose told him that pork was almost within
reach, when the bugle-call of his enemy--Tiger's challenging bark--smote
upon his ear. Guide and dog were opportunely returning to camp.

Of course, as soon as the marauder scrambled off the roof, Cyrus and the
boys sprang from their couch. Barefooted, and in night costume, they
were already at the door of the hut before Uncle Eb was heard booming,--

"Boys! Boys! Tumble out--tumble out! Dere's a reg'lar razzle-dazzle
fight goin' on heah. Tiger's nabbed de coon."




CHAPTER V.