m as he passed; only the heavy hawks, sailing,
watched him with bright eyes.

He was a dark-eyed, spare young man, with well-shaped head and a good
mouth. He wore his canvas shooting-clothes like a soldier, and handled
his gun and his dogs with a careless ease that might have appeared
slovenly had the results been less precise. But even an amateur could
see how thoroughly the ground was covered by those silent dogs. Gordon
never spoke to them; a motion of his hand was enough.

Once a scared rabbit scuttled out of the sweet fern and bounded away,
displaying the piteous flag of truce, and Gordon smiled to himself when
his perfectly trained dogs crossed the alluring trail without a tremor,
swerving not an inch for bunny and his antics.

But what could good dogs do, even if well handled, when there had been
no flight from the north? So Gordon signalled the dogs and walked on.

That part of his property which he had avoided for years he now came in
sight of from the hill, and he halted, gun under his arm. There was the
fringe of alders, mirrored in Rat's Run; there was Jocelyn's shanty, the
one plague-spot in his estate; there, too, was old man Jocelyn, on his
knees beside the stream, fussing with something that glistened, probably
a fish.

The young man on the hill-top tossed his gun over his shoulder and
called his two silvery-coated dogs to heel; then he started to descend
the slope, the November sunlight dancing on the polished gun-barrels.
Down through the scrubby thickets he strode; burr and thorn scraped his
canvas jacket, blackberry-vines caught at elbow and knee. With an
unfeigned scowl he kept his eyes on Jocelyn, who was still pottering on
the stream's bank, but when Jocelyn heard him come crackling through the
stubble and looked up the scowl faded, leaving Gordon's face
unpleasantly placid.

"Good-morning, Jocelyn," said the young man, stepping briskly to the
bank of the stream; "I want a word or two with you."

"Words are cheap," said Jocelyn, sitting up on his haunches; "how many
will you have, Mr. Gordon?"

"I want you," said Gordon, slowly emphasizing each word, "to stop your
depredations on my property, once and for all."

Squatting there on the dead grass, Jocelyn eyed him sullenly without
replying.

"Do you understand?" said Gordon, sharply.

"Well, what's the trouble now--" began Jocelyn, but Gordon cut him
short.

"Trouble! You've shot out every swale along Brier Brook! There isn't a
part