The Sky Pilot in No Mans Land | Page 9

seat had fallen again on dogs, Stewart maintaining with ever increasing vehemence his expert knowledge of dogs, of hunting dogs, and very especially of setter hunting dogs; his friend, while granting his knowledge of dogs in general, questioning the unprejudiced nature of his judgment as far as Slipper was concerned.
As Duff's declarations grew in violence they became more and more elaborately decorated with profanity. In the full tide of their conversation a quiet voice broke in:
"Too many 'damns.'"
"What!" exclaimed Duff.
"I beg your pardon!" said Sandy.
"Too many 'damns,'" said Barry, looking quietly at Duff.
"Dams? Where?" said Duff, looking about.
"Beaver dams, do you mean?" enquired Sandy. "I don't see any."
"Too many 'damns,'" reiterated Barry. "You don't need them. You really don't need them, you know, and besides, they are not right. Profanity is quite useless, and it's wicked."
"Well, I'll be damned!" said Stewart in a low voice to his friend. "He means us."
"And quite right, too," said Sandy solemnly. "You know your English is rotten bad. Yes, sir," he continued, turning round to Barry, "I quite agree with you. My friend is quite unnecessarily free in his speech."
"Yes, but you are just the same, you know," said Barry. "Not quite so many, but then you are not quite so excited."
"Got you there, old sport," grunted Duff, highly amused at Sandy's discomfiture. But to Barry he said, "I guess it's our own business how we express ourselves."
"Yes, it is, but, pardon me, not entirely so. There are others in the world, you know, and you must consider others. The habit is a bad habit, a rotten habit, and quite useless--silly, indeed."
Duff turned his back upon him. Sandy, giving his friend a nudge, burst into a loud laugh.
"You are right, sir," he said, turning to Barry. "You are quite right."
At this point Slipper created a diversion.
"Hello!" said Duff. "Say! Look at him!" He pointed to the dog. "Ain't he a picture!"
A hundred yards away stood Slipper, rigid, every muscle, every hair taut, one foot arrested in air.
"I'll just get those," said Duff, slipping out of the buckboard and drawing the gun from beneath the seat. "Steady, old boy, steady! Hold the lines, Sandy."
He moved quickly toward the dog who, quivering with that mysterious instinct found in the hunting dog, still held the point with taut muscles, nose and tail in line.
"Hello!" Barry called out. "It isn't the season yet for chicken. I say, Mr. Duff," he shouted, "it isn't the chicken season, you know."
"Better leave him alone," said Sandy.
"But it isn't the season yet! It is against the law!" protested Barry indignantly.
Meantime Stewart Duff was closing up cautiously behind Slipper.
"Forward, old boy! Ste-e-e-ady! Forward!" The dog refused to move. "Forward, Slipper!"
Still the dog remained rigid, as if nailed to the ground.
"On, Slipper!"
Slowly the dog turned his head with infinite caution half round toward his master, as if in protest.
"Hello, there!" shouted Barry, "you know--"
Just as he called there was on all sides a great whirring of wings. A dozen chicken flew up from under Duff's feet. Bang! Bang! went his gun.
"Missed, as I'm a sinner!" exclaimed Sandy. "I thought he was a better shot than that."
Back came Duff striding wide toward the buckboard. Fifty yards away he shouted:
"Say! what the devil do you mean calling like that at a man when he's on the point of shooting!" His face was black with anger. He looked ready to strike. Barry looked at him steadily.
"But, I was just reminding you that it was not the season for chicken yet," he said in the tone of a man prepared to reason the matter.
"What's that got to do with it! And anyway, whose business is it what I do but my own?"
"But it's against the law!"
"Oh, blank the law! Besides--"
"Besides it isn't--well, you know, it isn't quite sporting to shoot out of season." Barry's manner was as if dealing with a fractious child.
Duff, speechless with his passion, looked at him as if not quite sure what form his vengeance should take.
"He's quite right, Stewart," said his friend Sandy, who was hugely enjoying himself. "You know well enough you are down on the farmer chaps who go pot hunting before season. It's rotten sport, you know."
"Oh, hell! Will you shut up! Can't I shoot over my dog when he points? I'm not out shooting. If I want to give my dog a little experience an odd bird or two don't matter. Besides, what the--"
"Oh, come on, Stewart! Get in, and get a move on! You know you are in the wrong. But I thought you were a better shot than that," added Sandy.
His remark diverted Duff's rage.
"Better shot!" he stormed. "Who could shoot with a--a--a--" he was feeling round helplessly for a properly effective word,--"with a fellow yelling at you?" he concluded lamely. "I'd have had a brace of