rtainly," agreed Mr. Kincaid, quite unruffled. "I never shoot on a
man's land when he doesn't want me to."

He turned, and at once the man became abusive, just as a dog gains
courage as his enemy passes. Bobby listened, his eyes wide with dismay
and shock. Never had he heard quite that sort of language. Finally Mr.
Kincaid happened to glance down at his small companion. He slipped the
shells from his gun and leaned it against a stump.

"About face!" he said sharply to the man. "You can't talk that way
before this baby. We are going off your place as straight and as fast as
we can. You shoulder your pitchfork and go back to your house."

The man started again on a string of objurgation.

"I mean what I say," said Mr. Kincaid with deadly emphasis. "About face.
If you open your mouth again I shall certainly kill you."

The old man's bent shoulders had straightened, his mild blue eye flashed
fire. So he must have looked to his soldiers before the storming of
Molino del Rey. His hands were quite empty of a weapon, and his age was
hardly a match for the other's brute strength. Nevertheless the farmer
at once turned back, after a parting, but milder, admonition.

Mr. Kincaid picked up his gun, tucked it under his arm and trudged
forward. Bobby was trembling violently with excitement and anger.

"Why--why--" he gasped, as yet unable to cast his thoughts into speech.

Mr. Kincaid glanced down. A faint and amused smile flickered under his
moustache.

"You aren't going to do that sort of a crank the honour of keeping
stirred up, are you?" "That's Pritchard--the worst crank in Michigan.
He's quarrelled with every one. I never did know where his farm was, or
I should have taken pains to keep off."

They climbed into the cart and drove away toward town.

"I believe I'll make a hunter of you, Bobby," pursued Mr. Kincaid after
they were going. "It's a good thing to be. Of course there's the fun of
it--the 'pats,' the quail, the jacksnipe, the 'cock. But then there's
the other part, too."

[Illustration: "I MEAN WHAT I SAY," SAID MR. KINCAID WITH DEADLY
EMPHASIS]

They had come out on the sandhills over the town. Mr. Kincaid drew up
Bucephalus and contemplated it as it lay below them, its roofs half
hidden in the mauve and lilac of bared branches, its columns of smoke
rising straight up in the frosty air.

"Of course, I don't know, Bobby, whether you'll ever be a hunter or not.
It all depends on where you live and how--t