South Mountain is the last concentration of Apparitions,— as you might say, Shape-'Morphers, and Soul-Snatchers, besides plain "Ghosts." Beyond lies Wilderness, where quite another Presence reigns, undiffer-entiate,— Thatwhichever precedeth Ghostliness....
Dixon takes to wearing a coonskin cap. Mason is alarm'd,— "That something has happen'd to your hair," is what he says aloud, whilst thinking, that Dixon has become a Werewolf, or even worse,— some New World Creature without a name, at home among the illimitable possibil?ities of Evil in this Forest,...some Manifestation to daylight denied— Meanwhile Dixon, sensing in his partner but a lower order of Snakes-and-Bears Jumpiness, in Fun begins appearing at the Tent-opening with the tail of the Hat pull'd round in front of his face, screaming in a Pit?man's Cant intelligible but to himself. Mason's reactions are all he is hoping for, and more. The Quill goes into a panicky skate off the page,— Mason looks frantically about for a weapon. Dixon quickly reverses the bushy Tail.
"Surprize!"
"Not funny."
"Don't like me Shappo? Well Ah hadn't done Punch's Voice yet...?" At Mason's blank look, "Tha mean, tha've never done this with thy Wig? The children love it."
"Fascinating. Apparently I was never allow'd the Opportunity,— my older son,— William,— having learn'd quite soon to remove mine from my head, and convert it into a toy Cudgel, with which, charmingly of course, he would pretend to smash his baby brother's head in. The pow?der always made him sneeze, altho' this did not affect the sincerity of his Assault."
But the word always has slipp'd in, fatal to any attempt at Wit, or even lightness of tone, and may be Mason's way of asking for sympathy, fully as supplicatory as a tremor in the voice, a fugitive tear. He has blunder'd on into a Remark about Hats, cock'd and not.
"Sir?" Dixon giving Beef.
"Surely, Sir, I meant no disrespect to the Quakers, among whom I number,—
" Tis the dismissive Use of Metonymy, Sir. We are particularly earnest upon the Topick of Hats, having invested in them more than insurance against the Rain.—  Our history as a Sect having begun with a Hat that remain'd upon its Head,— and mercifully the Head upon its Body,—
Later, Mason seeks revenge. Dixon having drifted into a hypnagogic passage in which, amid a profligacy of stars rushing by, he is traversing straight upward, Zenithward,— "Eeh! Eeh!" He is awake and scream?ing. Mason is ringing a small iron Bell rapidly in front of his Nose. "Indi?ans? Americans? Where's my Rifle? Whah'?"
' 'Tis Capella," smirks Mason, "about to culminate, and tho' I do pre?fer the Clock myself, as it is your, ye might say, Work-Station, reluctantly must I yield it to you, I suppose, and go clap me Eye to the old Snout once again."
"I wasn't asleep...?"
" 'Fair Blapsia, I am thine'? Pray you Sir, a moment's Mercy."
"Who said than'... ? Ah didn't say thah'... ?"
Mason's look is pois'd between Pity and Annoyance.
"I've been awake. I remember when Farlow and Boggs came by...? with their Voucher Situation... ? a lively whim-wham for fair."
"Boggs and Farlow didn't,— Hum, that is to say,—
"Ha! Happen 'twas thee asleep then...? I puzzl'd that they spoke so quietly."
"I was awake, all the time, they were never here, you must have dream'd it.”
"Oh, tha look'd awake, but Ah mind thy gift of sleeping with thine Eyes open wide."
"I can't help that, my father did it too, it's given me Nightmares for Years. I couldn't bear to look at it,— how can you? Doesn't it trouble you?"
"Me? Why, no. Why should it? Some individual pretending to stare at me, whilst his Soul's off God knows where, having Adventures imper?fectly recall'd,— why should any of that trouble me, particularly the Question of what, in thy Absence, is doing the Staring for thee? What caretaker, what Verger of the Temple of the Self... ? Eeh!"
"Yes. And, and the Stare you speak of,— do my Eyes, in a sense, roll upward into blind white Ovoids, and are your Dreams not invaded by that sinister unseeing Gaze, ever-charg'd with some imminent Act you must upon no account remain there to witness,—
"Aye!" screams Dixon, " - aye, they're blank as boil'd Eggs, and worse,— for Irisless and unpupil'd yet do they go on squinting at me, as if,- "
"Yes, yes?"
"Eeh, never mind."
"No, pray you, I'm interested, very interested indeed." Wind shoves against the Tent. Rainwater somewhere drips into a kettle. The flames of the Tallow Dips are ever uncertain. From the Forest now proceed Sounds, real ones, that neither Surveyor has heard before, and that each is too embarrass'd to mention to the other. Dixon, having the finer toler?ance for mysterious intrusion, breaks first. "All right, I know you hear it too. It's rhythmic, and high-pitch'd, aye? I say it's Indian Drums, and they're talking about huz...?"
"And I say, 'tis a Dog," Mason somber. "A particular Dog, with a syn?copated Bark— Oh yes, a Dog well known and much fear'd in this Region,— withal a Dog...."
"Eeh, wait then, wheer's my Flask, if we're having a Toast to the Ani?mal. ..?" Outside something is creeping by. "Hold!" Dixon seizing a Pis?tol and diving out the tent-flap, into the rain with a smoothness Mason has rarely observ'd. There is some jingling and shuffling. "It's the young McClean!" cries Dixon.
"Felicitude," mutters Mason. "What next? Invite him in for a Drink, I suppose."
In pokes Dixon's head, considerably wetter. "Nathe's of your Mind,— thinks it's a Dog. I still say it's a Drum, though perhaps of unconven?tional Design,— say, how much of that Stuff in the Bottles is to hand?" They now are join'd by other crew members who have heard, and are unhappy with, the pulsing, uncertainly Distant Noise. Wearily Mason pulls on Oil-cloths, tugs his Service-Grade Beaver over his Nob, and emerges to mill about as perplex'd as the rest, hoping no one will look to him for Leadership. Soon the place is so full of Crew that they decide to move on into the Mess tent, where already Mr. Barnes and his Band have been conversing separately.
"Gents, we are all agreed," the Overseer greets them, " 'tis the," whis?pering for the first time since they've known him, "Black Dog."
"Probably out seeking to relieve himself upon one or more of his per?sonal Trees," adds Matt Marine, "which will no longer be there, having been chopp'd down for our Visto. The B.D. will likely be very put out at this, for he does like his personal Trees, ye see."
"Shall he retaliate?" wonders Mason. "What Measures should we be taking?"
"Eeh, Mason...?"
"May I suggest that this is all but a form of Joint Mirage," offers the Revd, "something very like it having been reported in the Philosophical Transactions not long ago, as you may recall?"
Dixon's "Why, aye" and Mason's "I do not" are spoken simultane?ously. The Surveyors glare at each other. "Someone wrote in to the R.S. about this Black Dog?" inquires Mason.
"Careful," warns Mr. Barnes, "you're not suppos'd to use any of Its names, really."
"Really? 'The Black Dog'? Can't say, The Black— ' "............