A Red-letter Day 223 



count and shooting as a sportsman should, and why 

 there was no advantage in getting upon Bob White 

 ground too early. She knew that fifteen birds was 

 his limit so far as that particular game was concerned, 

 and she also knew that the fifteen and perhaps some 

 other game would load that coat at night, if all went 

 well. So when he had nearly finished breakfast, she 

 slipped away, to presently return amid a tumult of 

 scratching claws and gusty breathing. 



" Here he is and I gave him just 

 three bits ! " she panted, as the strong brute 

 strained at the chain in his eagerness. 



" Down you ! " muttered the man, and as the 

 quivering form sank promptly, he continued 

 " Mater mine, thou fibbest he don't lick his chops 

 that way after straight bread." 



" Merely an atom of gravy, dear just a drop was 

 kept, and the bread is so dry and he chews at it so." 



" Grease faugh ! will you never learn ? " he 

 growls, but his eyes are twinkling and he has to 

 avert his face to keep from laughing outright, for 

 this question of dog-fare is a rock upon which they 

 regularly split. Right well he knows that Don 

 has had his bread, a trifle of meat, and perhaps 

 about a pint of soupy stuff to boot ; but he wisely 

 makes no further comment, for the mistake was 

 lovingly made. 



And so they fare forth, a varmint-looking team, 

 both lean and hard, the long, easy stride of the man 

 hinting of many days afoot, the corky action of the 

 dog proving him sound and keen. 'Tis true his 

 ribs show as though his hide covered a spiral 

 spring, but his white coat has a satiny lustre, and he 



