Before sunrise one spring morning he went, as usual,
to the wood lot pasture for the cow, and was surprised to
find a stranger, who beckoned him to come. On going
near he saw a tall man with dark skin and straight black
hair that was streaked with gray -- undoubtedly an Indian.
He held up a bag and said, "I got coon in that hole. You
hold bag there, I poke him in." Rolf took the sack
readily and held it over the hole, while the Indian climbed
the tree to a higher opening, then poked in this with a long
pole, till all at once there was a scrambling noise and the
bag bulged full and heavy. Rolf closed its mouth
triumphantly. The Indian laughed lightly, then swung to the
ground.
"Now, what will you do with him?" asked Rolf.
"Train coon dog," was the answer.
"Where?"
The Indian pointed toward the Asamuk Pond.
"Are you the singing Indian that lives under Ab's Rock?
"Ugh!* Some call me that. My name is Quonab."
"Wait for an hour and then I will come and help,"
volunteered Rolf impulsively, for the hunting instinct was
strong in him.
The Indian nodded. "Give three yelps if you no find
me;" then he shouldered a short stick, from one end of
which, at a safe distance from his back, hung the bag with
the coon.
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