278 The Sporting Dog 



tiously, Bob, usually the leader, stopped to a posi- 

 tive point on the ditch bank. 



" There's never two bunches along this ditch," 

 said the doctor, doubtingly. He had the old 

 farm's capacity well conned. 



But it was a pdint and there must be something. 

 We glided forward. Nothing flushed. The dog 

 still pointed. Walking around him and kicking 

 the grass, we could still raise nothing. The master 

 looked for a terrapin, a roosting place, everything 

 which might explain the insistent point. He at 

 last spoke a regretful and reproachful word to 

 Robert and called him on. Bob seemed to say, 

 "Well, if you can't, I will." He leaped for- 

 ward and pounced on some object in the grass. 

 This was the worst kind of knotty Greek to me 

 and it stumped even the veteran. We could see 

 not a thing to explain the dog's action. He would 

 not act that way over a mole or field mouse. But 

 he was right, after all. Carefully pulling apart 

 the grass, we saw the brown coat of a quail. It 

 was so tightly wedged into the heavy growth that 

 it could not move. Anything but a flawless nose, 

 any dog of the overhurrying kind, would have 

 passed it by and turned its hiding device into a 

 brilliant success. Dropping out of the bevy as 

 the others spread into the thicket, the bird had 

 dashed into an opening, only to find itself both 

 caged and wing-locked. 



