for all his shots. Old Frank, who had followed him
around at first, pricking his ears at every shot, ready to bring in the
game, had concluded that there would be no game to bring in, and had
lost interest at last.

Then, just an hour ago, the boy had hit upon this scheme of baiting
sparrows to their doom. And now with the patience of the born hunter,
tireless like the patience of the cat watching at the mouse hole, he
waited for sparrows to come. His face was flushed, his eyes were
shining, the smooth muscles of his bare, sturdy legs were knotted as he
stood a-tiptoe, peering.

Now, Steve Earle, the father, was not only a mighty hunter, a bigger
edition merely of the boy--he was also a modern, successful planter. His
corn and tobacco and cotton crops were the talk of the county; his
horses were pedigreed; his mules sleek; his chickens the finest. Among
these latter was a prize-winning Indian Game super-rooster named Pete.
He was big, boisterous, stubborn, and swollen with pride and vainglory.

It was Pete who now appeared through the aisles of the tall corn, within
range of Tommy's periscopic vision, chortling and boasting to the sober
harem that followed him. Suddenly he raised his head; his beady eyes
glittered; he hurried greedily toward the crumbs, squawking hoarsely,
clucking wildly, like a crude fellow who aspires to be a gallant and
overdoes the part.

"Shoo!" cried Tommy through the porthole.

Pete raised his head high and cackled in amazed indignation that anybody
should say such a thing to him. Then, dismissing this temporary
annoyance of a small boy yelling at him through a knothole, he hurried
into the very midst of the crumbs. He picked one up; he turned round to
the hens; he dropped it to demonstrate what he had found. The hens
cackled in admiration of the splendid performance.

At this Pete went crazy; his clucking increased prodigiously; he pawed
crumbs into the ground, just to show how grandly careless he could be in
the midst of such profusion. And here came all the hens to him, half
flying like a covey of quail about to alight.

"Shoo!" yelled the boy a second time.

Again Pete cried out indignantly, as if he really didn't know what to
make of such impertinence. Crimson of face, Tommy left his lookout.
Frank following, he ran round the barn and burst into the midst of the
feasters. A wild scattering ensued. Cackling and squawking, the valiant
Pete led the retreat through the corn. Face still