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 

 through 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 



