A Red- Letter Day 231 



derstand. Oh ! they are a precious pair of rascals, 

 are these two. 



" You old Judas," says the man, " we'll do things 

 to 'em now. It looks like fifteen straight eh? " 



And the dog cuts a couple of fool-capers, which 

 is his method of evincing a devilish approval. Then 

 the pair of 'em move on after the misguided birds. 



Whur ! Bing ! Whur ! Bing ! It is almost too 

 easy. Shooting in that ditch where cover is barely 

 knee-high with a high embankment on one side and 

 a stiff fence on the other, is something like shooting 

 into an enormous funnel the shot has to go right. 

 The dog does little more than trot from point to 

 point. Bird after bird rises and is cut down with 

 painless exactitude. Presently two start together, 

 only to be dropped by a quick double-hail. Then 

 one curves over the fence, but a rising mist of 

 downy feathers tells that he got it just in time. 

 Then another pair, and as the second barrel sounds, 

 a third rises. The cases leap from the gun, a hand 

 flashes to and from a pocket Burr ! 



" Here's where we quit that makes fifteen," says 

 the man, as the last bird is gathered. He sits down 

 on a convenient knoll, pushes his hat back, and 

 grins at the dog. That worthy, after a hesitating 

 forward movement, which would indicate his belief 

 that " There's more," also sits down and stares ex- 

 pectantly at the grimy coat. " Yes, I'll give you 

 half. You've done mighty well, and for once it's 

 fifteen straight," chuckles the man as he produces 

 the sandwiches. The dog gets a bit more than half, 

 for this is a red-letter day. Then the pipe comes 

 out, and for half an hour the pair of 'em lounge in 



