294 Sporting Sketches 



" The ' bull ' looks fit this morning," placidly 

 remarks Doc, who hates a pointer worse than a 

 blank day. 



" Yep, he's good to-day ; and the old Newfound- 

 land's able to ride a mile or so, apparently," I 

 sweetly retort, for we love each other, we two, 

 and each has a cracking good dog and knows it. 



"Shall the bow-legged bull ride it's five miles, 

 you know ? " continues Doc, insinuatingly. 



" There's no ambulance call in my kennel ! " I 

 snap back. 



" Might be handy before night," sighs Doc, and 

 we both laugh as I climb up. 



As we bowl along for mile after mile, Don's nose 

 is within an inch of the horse's heels. There is no 

 dust ; he loves to travel so, and seldom indeed has 

 he to break from his own peculiarly rapid trot. 

 Under the trap he is safe from attacks by farm 

 dogs, which, if they try to dash in from the side, 

 merely take a tour with a wheel or get run over. 

 Woe be unto the brute determined enough to 

 attempt a rear raid! Don, when put to it, would 

 sooner fight than eat, and he is always in fine con- 

 dition. Five miles from home we reach the first of 

 the chosen cover. Five minutes later the nag is 

 comfortable in an old log shed, and we are ready 

 for business. 



It is a good ruffed grouse country. Leaving the 

 well-cultivated fields behind, we enter an irregular 

 belt of clearing where old brush piles and stumps 

 are overhung with a snarl of briers and slim second 

 growths. Back of this the unbroken forest spreads 

 for miles, while near its edge winds the broad bed 



