Mr* Ponto 
Gentleman and Sportsman 
By LEWIS HOPKINS 
(Concluded from page io.) 
F OR the sake of practice my preceptor had 
allowed me from the beginning to shoot 
larks and other small birds, but had al¬ 
ways taken pains to show me that this was not 
really sportsmanlike. No matter how close on 
he might be to a lark, he would abandon the 
trail at once if he came on that of a real game 
bird and show an immediate increase of interest. 
One unorthodox thing he would not do, how¬ 
ever, although I tried hard to persuade him—he 
would not be a party to the hunting of fur. 
To me a rabbit was big as a buffalo and I al¬ 
most had a fit when we put up the first one, sor¬ 
rowing sorely that I was not quick enough to 
try a shot at it. Ponto pretended not to see 
it, and as he was generally so alert I could 
not understand this, never having heard of such 
foolishness, as I later learned was abroad among 
sportsmen that a fine, fat rabbit was not really 
game. I tried to get him to take the trail and 
help me to hunt down this one, the possession 
of which would have filled my soul with bliss, 
but he -would have none of it, turning away in 
disgust. I concluded he must be out of con¬ 
dition and humored him by going off after some¬ 
thing else, but determining to get into the first 
likely looking cultivated field we came to and 
see if I could not get a rabbit, as the-season was 
far enough advanced to make them excellent 
table dainties from a boy’s point of view. 
The opportunity came soon and we left the 
prairie for a splendid field of brown stubble 
overgrown with weeds. The very place, I 
thought, for rabbits to use. The old dog went 
to work, but for fear we might pass over some¬ 
thing, I swung back and forth across the cover, 
keeping a close watch for the coveted game. 
A rabbit finally bounced out from under foot 
and I banged away at it, but did not seem to 
connect. Ponto came back to see what it was 
all about and looked somewhat puzzled as he 
worked all around without getting a game scent. 
We started off again and soon I put up another 
fine cottontail, and this time made good, shoot¬ 
ing straight down the path he bored in the 
weeds as he fled. Ponto came running back 
again, but my delight was too great to wait for 
him to hunt up my prize, so I ran with all my 
might and snatched it up just as he arrived. It 
was my first rabbit—running—and I was greatly 
delighted and willing to share my joy with my 
good friend, even if he had not contributed to 
it as I thought he should. Swinging the rabbit 
around I brought its soft fur against the side 
of the old dog’s head as he ran up, and the re¬ 
sult was one of the surprises of my happy ac¬ 
quaintance with him. If the warm, soft body of 
the rabbit had been a flaming fire brand, it could 
not have had a more startling effect on the dog. 
As he felt it and saw what it was, he leaped 
away with a mighty bound, shook his head until 
his ears fairly cracked, and then went down on 
his belly and rubbed his head vigorously into the 
ground. Starting up he shook his head again, 
coughed violently and backed off with an ex¬ 
pression of intense disgust. Utterly at a loss to 
understand his strange actions I tried to ap¬ 
proach him, still holding the rabbit in my hand, 
but he retreated at once. Try as I would I could 
not get near him, nor would he come to me. 
I finally gave up, and laying down the rabbit, 
proceeded to reload my gun. This accomplished, 
I dropped the rabbit into the bag on my shoul¬ 
der and turned to continue the quest for more. 
Then came the second surprise of the day. 
Ponto got to his feet slowly, and turning 
his back on me, walked off in the direction of 
the prairie whence we had come. I called and 
begged him to come back, but without deigning 
to turn his head he walked deliberately to the 
fence, jumped over and then turned, as much 
as to say, “Now come on, I’m waiting here for 
you.” 
I struck the festive cottontail from my list and 
after that kept to the legitimate game. 
Late in the season the grouse began to gather 
in large droves and put out sentinels. After this 
it was almost impossible to get within range of 
them, as they would not lie to the dog at all. 
Small game continued fairly abundant and we 
had good sport, but I was glad one day when 
Ponto notified me that chickens had been around 
where we were. It proved to be three birds 
that had not yet gone into the drove. I killed 
one on the flush and marked the other two down 
in a field of corn and went after them. As I 
approached the fence surrounding the field I 
noticed standing near the road a horse and 
buggy and thought I had seen the outfit before. 
A closer inspection showed it to be the onf 
used by the two men I had interrupted in their 
depredat.on on the field of corn some time be¬ 
fore, and I was debating in my mind the wisdom 
of turning back, when hearing a noise I looked 
over into the corn and saw one of the men ap¬ 
proaching with a gun and his arms full of corn. 
He saw me about the same time and immediately 
turned and dropped his load. He was an ugly 
looking rascal, but I anticipated no trouble with 
him as we were near a high road. 
When nearly up to the fence he seemed to 
recognize me, and with an ugly scowl on his 
face, called out: “What are you sneaking around 
here watching me for?” 
I told him I was hunting and not watching 
him; in fact, had not known of his presence. 
“You lie,” said he angrily. “You are watch¬ 
ing and spying on me, and I will learn you bet¬ 
ter, d- you.” 
Springing over the fence he leaned his gun 
against a post and drawing the heavy ramrod— 
thick as a small walking cane and metal shod— 
he came straight for me. I was badly fright¬ 
ened and practically at the man’s mercy. He 
was strong and active and he was in a great 
rage. 
If there had been stones handy or a good, 
strong club I should have quickly secured a 
weapon of defense, but the idea of using my 
gun to defend myself from a simple assault, 
even from an enraged and violent man, never 
occurred to me. He was almost upon me when, 
from my side, Ponto- stepped forward and 
faced him. The big brown dog always—hereto¬ 
fore—so perfectly gentle, was transformed. He 
was tense, alert and ready for quick action. 
Every hair on his back stood straight up, while 
his white teeth glistened through drawn lips. 
Facing the ruffian, who had stopped at once, he 
was a study of “The Defender” to delight the 
soul of an artist and bring the blood back to the 
white cheeks of the frightened boy standing be¬ 
hind him. 
“Call that dog back,” growled the man. 
I paid no attention to the order and Ponto 
stood as immovable as though cast in bronze. 
“Call him back, I tell you,” he fairly shouted. 
“I will kill him if you don’t. And I’ll beat the 
head off you, you infernal little scoundrel,” he 
added, shaking his rod savagely at me. 
“I won’t call the dog unless you promise not 
to hurt him or me,” I answered, feeling perfectly 
secure in my protector. 
“Then I’ll kill him,” was the immediate reply 
as he turned and started for his gun. 
I had been frightened when the man was about 
to attack me, but when he turned toward his 
gun with the avowed intention of shooting my 
dear old friend and protector, I was for a 
moment sick with terror, and then all the fight¬ 
ing blood in me roused to action. 
“Stop!” I screamed, when he had nearly 
