The dog sprawled on the warm moss and rolled over and over.
“I reckon some little codgers’ll be missin’ their mammy, pup.”
Joe cocked his ears and looked up at his master.
“They’ll be lookin’ to see her maybe by now,—but,” savagely, “ain’t never goin’ to see her no more.”
The squirrel twisted and attempted to dig its long yellow teeth into the hand that held it prisoner.
“She’s just like everythin’ else that has babies,” frowned the lad, “savage and foolish. Here, you,” he called to the dog, “where are you goin’, Joe?”
The setter was trotting slowly away.
“What’s got into him, I wonder,” muttered the young man; “never knowed Joe to run away from sport before, unless it was that time the old she-’coon slashed his nose, after we’d cut down her tree and found her babies.”
Once more he turned the animal about and looked into its big soft eyes.
“I’m goin’ to give you another chance,” he said. “Pup don’t seem to hanker for your life, and I guess if a dog thinks that way about it I ought to think the same way. It’s a mighty good thing for you that you’ve got young ’uns. And now, you thievin’, murderin’ little devil—get.”