he lowered
it, and turned to his boarder with a mixture of politeness and rustic
mockery.

"Your first shot!" said he. "I'll shoot the critter, after you've
tried that there pea-shooter on him!"

"He's licked the dogs in fair fight," said the schoolmaster. "Let's
let him off!"

The farmer swore in unaffected amazement. "Why, that's the ---- ----
that does more damage than all the rest put together!" he exclaimed.
"You'll see me fix _him_. But you take first shot, Mister Chase. I
want to see the pea-shooter work!"

The young schoolmaster saw his prestige threatened,--and with no
profit whatever to the doomed raccoon. Prestige is nowhere held at
higher premium than in the backwoods. It is the magic wand of power.
The young man fired, a quick, but careful shot; and on the snappy,
insignificant report, the raccoon fell dead from the tree.

"You _kin_ shoot some!" remarked the farmer, picking up the victim,
and noting the bullet-hole in its forehead. And the hired boy spread
his mouth in a huge, broken-toothed grin of admiration.

The old sycamore stood out lonely in the flood of the moonlight. Not a
raccoon was in sight; but the round, black doorway to their den was
visible against the gray bark, beside the crotch of the one great
limb. The frantic yelpings of the dogs around the foot of the tree
were proof enough that the family were at home. The hunters, after the
ancient custom of men that hunt 'coons, had brought an axe with them;
but the hired boy, who carried it, looked with dismay at the huge
girth of the sycamore.

"Won't git that chopped down in a week!" said he, with pardonable
depreciation of his powers.

"Go fetch another axe!" commanded the farmer, seating himself on a
stump, and getting out his pipe.

"It would be a pity to cut down that tree, the biggest sycamore in the
country, just to get at a 'coon's nest!" said the young schoolmaster,
willing to spare both the tree and its inhabitants.

The farmer let his match go out while he eyed the great trunk.

"Never mind the axe," said he, calling back the hired boy. "Fetch me
the new bindin' rope out of the spare manger; an' a bunch of rags, an'
some salmon-twine. An' stir yerself!"

Relieved of his anxiety as to the chopping, the boy sped willingly on
his errand. And the young schoolmaster realized, with a little twinge
of regret, that the raccoon family was doomed.

When the boy came back, the farmer took the bunch of rags, smeared
them liberal