“Hush! Collector,” he whispered, “do you see that fellow up there, on the fork of the tree? He seems to be jeering at us.”
At the same time he pointed out a squirrel, sitting perched upon a branch, about halfway up the tree. The animal’s tail stood up behind like a plume, his ears were upright, and he had his front paws in his mouth, as if cracking a nut.
“A squirrel!” cried the impetuous Boucheseiche, immediately falling into the snare; “let no one touch him, gentlemen—I will settle his account for him.”
The rest of the hunters had drawn back in a circle, and were exchanging sly glances. The collector loaded his gun, shouldered it, covered the squirrel, and then let go.
“Hit!” exclaimed he, triumphantly, as soon as the smoke had dispersed.
In fact, the animal had slid down the branch, head first, but, somehow, he did not fall to the ground.
“He has caught hold of something,” said the notary, facetiously.
“Ah! you will hold on, you rascal, will you?” shouted Boucheseiche, beside himself with excitement, and the next moment he sent a second shot, which sent the hair flying in all directions.
The creature remained in the same position. Then there was a general roar.
“He is quite obstinate!” remarked the clerk, slyly.