is my dawg----"

"Let me have that pistol of yours, Purt," commanded Lance, firmly,
reeling in his line.

The dude, who had stood open-mouthed and shaking, could not follow
Lance's lead worth a cent. "You--you know, Lance," he stammered, "the
pistol won't shoot----"

"Ho, ho!" cried the farmer, who had stopped abruptly when Lance had
spoken. "Tryin' to scare me, was you? Now you step lively, or I'll let
the dawg go."

"You poor sport!" gasped Lance, scowling at the shaking dude.

Short and Long, having tempted the fates far enough, was winding up
his own line. And just before the fly left the surface of the water a
trout jumped for it and caught the hook.

"Whee!" yelled Short and Long, as the line reeled out, singing
shrilly.

"Stop that!" yelled the man. "That's my fish----"

"I can't help it," responded the boy from Central High. "I was reeling
in, wasn't I? He came right up and jumped for my fly. Call off your
old fish, if you don't want him caught on my hook and line."

But Billy Long was too saucy that time. He was playing the fish while
he talked, just as well as he knew how. The farmer gave a yell, let
the dog's strap run through his hand, and the beast, with an angry
bay, dashed straight at the youthful fisherman.

Perhaps the farmer did not really intend doing such a cruel thing. For
the dog would have torn Billy Long to pieces had he reached him.

There was a shout from across the stream--on the side where Laura
stood--and a man leaped into the open. He carried a gun. As he reached
the bank of the brook he threw up the shot-gun and erupted the
contents of one barrel into the fore-shoulder of the angry dog.

The distance was scarcely two rods. The small shot peppered the dog
well, and gave him a whole lot to think of beside grabbing a
defenseless boy.

The farmer began to yell vociferously; the dog raised his voice even
more loudly and, after falling and rolling over and over on the ground
for a moment, he got to his feet and cut into the bushes like a flash.
He was more scared than hurt.

"I'll have you arrested for that!" yelled the dog's owner, shaking
both clenched fists at the young man with the gun.

"You'd better thank me that the beast did not grab that boy," was the
reply.

The young man with the gun seemed perfectly calm. He was a pale-faced
young man, well dressed in a hunting suit, and with narrow boots on
his rather small feet. He was doubtless a city sportsman.

"I bet I kn