The Quail 73 



less to say, he should not be killed for any pur- 

 pose. 



A DAY OVER DOGS 



You've seen an old cart-horse — one of the sort 

 with spavins, and splints, and grease-heel, and poll- 

 evil, and a few little things like that — released in 

 pasture ? You've seen his ponderous joy as he 

 grasped the fact that for a time at least he was 

 free from galling straps ; you've seen him put his 

 tail up and snort, then take a good, grunty old 

 roll, and wind up with a stiff-jointed trot around 

 and a few extra fool-capers on the side ? Well, I 

 felt just that way. 



All one night I had whirled westward, sleeping 

 like a winter bear, content with my single dream 

 that I was flying farther and farther from the 

 deep city canons of Gotham. Then a black 

 hand pawed at me, and a voice said : " Git up, 

 Boss, — you done got but ten minutes ! " 



He was right, as porters always are, and, as I 

 hurried through dressing, an occasional peep 

 throuo^h the window detected thickets and bits of 

 woodland which were strangely familiar. There 

 were the old grounds, now, so the letter had said, 

 carrying a grand crop of quail, and here I was 

 almost ready and almost arrived. A few minutes 

 later, that best of fellows, whom I shall call 

 " Doc," was leading the way to his snug resi- 

 dence, and telling me all about it. The dogs 



