A Match at Chickens 183 



ground with a beautiful precision which spoke 

 eloquently of careful breaking and regular work. 

 But fast and game as he was, he had a worthy 

 rival. The big pointer — white as marble with 

 the brand of the old blood, a lemon head — 

 matched him stride for stride, going with a snap 

 and dash which augured ill for any dog at the 

 close of a day. 



At length the white dog swerved from a cross- 

 wind tack and went bounding up-wind for per- 

 haps one hundred yards. Then his gallop slowed 

 to a trot, the trot to a walk, and with head and 

 tail raised high above the line of his back, he 

 grandly drifted to his anchorage. Big and white, 

 he loomed large above the grass — a glorious 

 image of steadfast purpose, which might well have 

 been carved from rarest marble by some master 

 hand of old. Presently the red fellow swung 

 about, and, instantly grasping the situation, 

 stopped almost in a stride. He too might have 

 passed for some graven image, were it not that 

 the breeze rippled the silken feather of his quiver- 

 ing stern. 



" Out with you, gentleman. You're first, Mr. 



M " said the colonel, as we descended. In 



a moment the " twelve " was snapped together, but 



M seemed to have a trifle of trouble. He 



muttered something to his friend, dropped a shell, 

 picked it up, and showed a slightly heightened 



