* *

The short autumn days went fast. Before they knew it the pale sun had
touched the horizon and the world was turning cold and gray. Then came
the long laden tramp back to old Bucephalus, or perhaps to town, if they
had started out afoot. They were always very tired; but, as to Bobby, at
least, very happy.

Generally speaking they wandered through the country at will. Shooting
was not then as popular as it is now, nor the farms as close together.
Sometimes, however, they came across signs warning against trespass or
hunting. Then, if the cover seemed especially desirable, Mr. Kincaid
used sometimes to try to obtain permission of the owner of the land.
Once or twice, having overlooked the sign, they were ordered off. The
farmers were good-natured, even though firm.

But some four miles to the eastward lay a deep long swamp following the
windings between hills where Mr. Kincaid and Bobby had a very
disagreeable experience. It was late in the afternoon, so Bobby had
become tired. Duke made game on the outskirts of a dense thicket,
hesitated, then led the way cautiously into the tangle.

"It's pretty thick," Mr. Kincaid advised Bobby; "you'd better sit on the
stump there until I come out."

Bobby did so. A moment or so after Mr. Kincaid had disappeared, the
little boy became aware of a man approaching across the stump-dotted
field. He was a short, thickset man, with a broad face almost entirely
covered with a beard, a thick nose, and little, inflamed snapping eyes.
He was clad in faded and dingy overalls, and carried a pitchfork.

"Who's that shooting in here?" he shouted at Bobby as soon as he was
within hearing. "What do you mean by hunting here? You must have passed
right by the sign."

"Don't you want shooting here? No; we didn't see the sign," replied
Bobby.

By this time the man had approached, and Bobby could see his bloodshot
little eyes flickering with anger.

"You lying little snipe," he roared. "You must have seen the sign. You
couldn't help it. I've a mind to tan your hide good."

"What's this?" asked Mr. Kincaid's quiet voice.

The man whirled about.

"Oh, it's you, is it?" he snarled. "Well, what do you mean by
trespassing on my farm?"

"I didn't know it was your farm, in the first place; and I didn't know
shooting was prohibited in the second place."

"That's too thin. You came right by that sign at the corner. Now just
make tracks off this farm about as fast as you can go."

"Ce