“Oh! you aimed to take him on the left hind leg, did you?” jeered Step Hen, advancing a pace in the hope of discovering the beast crouching above, and offering a fair target.
“I hadn’t time to aim, but just shot any old way,” declared the other. “Fact is, I don’t believe the butt of my gun was more’n half way to my shoulder when I let go. He was agoin’ to jump right then, and I knew it was hit or miss with me.”
“A dangerous thing to do when it’s a lynx or a bob-cat,” remarked Allan, who, being a Maine boy, had had lots of experience with the fierce beasts. “Better have let him get clean away. But I don’t think you wounded him, Giraffe.”
“Huh? why not?”
“Because I never knew a wildcat that was wounded to run away,” Allan replied. “Once you give them pain, and you can make up your mind you’ve got a fight on your hands, and the chances are, a warm one too.”
Giraffe looked disappointed.
“Well, I tried for him, anyway,” he remarked. “Let’s see if we can glimpse his old staring yellow eyes somewhere up there.”
But they failed to do so.
“Make up your minds he’s got clean off before now,” said Allan. “The way one of those big cats can spring from tree to tree is fierce. But we haven’t the time just now to be looking for cats. I don’t believe we’ve lost any, do you, Thad?”
“But that old rascal seemed to be hanging on a limb just about over where our tenderfoot pard must have passed by,” ventured Giraffe, a new fear arising in his breast.