ss
powder used for almost a generation by nearly all hunters. Perhaps it
was merely accident that had caused Larsen before he left the house to
load his pump gun with black-powder shells.

As for Comet, he only knew that the birds rose with a whirr, and that
then, above his head, burst an awful roar, almost splitting his ear
drums, shocking every sensitive nerve, filling him with terror such as
he had never felt before. Even then in the confusion and horror of the
noise he turned to the man, ears ringing, eyes dilated. As for Larsen,
he declared afterward, to others and to himself even, that he noticed
no nervousness in the dog, that he was intent only on getting several
birds for breakfast.

Twice, three times, four times the pump gun bellowed its cannon-like
roar, piercing the ear drums, shattering the nerves. Comet turned. One
more glance backward at a face, pale, exultant. Then the puppy in him
conquered. Tail tucked, he ran away from that blasting noise.

There is this in fear, that once man or dog turns, fear increases.
Witness the panic of armies, of theatre audiences when the cry of fire
is given. Faster and faster from that terror that seemed following him
Comet sped. Miles and miles he ran. Now and then, stumbling over briars,
he yelped. His tail was tucked, his eyes crazy with fear. Seeing a
farmhouse, he made for that. It was noon hour and a group of men
loitered about the yard. With the cry "Mad dog!" one ran into the house
for a gun. When he came out the others told him that the dog was under
the porch, and must only have had a fit. And under the porch, in fact,
was Comet. Pressed against the wall in the comparative darkness, the
magnificent pointer with the quivering soul waited, panting, eyes
gleaming, horror still ringing in his ears.

Here Larsen found him that afternoon. A boy crawled underneath and
dragged him forth. He who had started life favoured of the gods, who
that morning had been full of high spirit and pride, who had circled
his first field like a champion, was a shrinking, cringing creature,
like a homeless cur.

The men laughed at the spectacle he made. To many people a gun-shy dog
is, in his terror, a sight for mirth. Perhaps he is. Certainly he is as
much so as a dog with a can tied to his tail. But some day neither sight
will be funny to any human soul.

As for Larsen, he kept repeating in sanctimonious tones that he had
never been more astonished in his life, though to tell the