d 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.

"