“Missed nuthin’,” cried Boy; “there he comes now.”
The second squirrel spun about on the limb a couple of times, then went crashing through the branches.
“As Bill Paisley would say, ‘that’s remarkable shootin’,’ ” chuckled McTavish. “That distance is well over eighty yards, else I don’t know distance.”
“Nearer a hundred, I should judge,” contended Boy. “She’s got all the rest of the McTavishes beat, dad.”
“Try another, Gloss,” suggested McTavish, placing the cap on the nipple of the rifle with clumsy fingers.
“I thought maybe two would be enough,” said the girl.
She took the rifle once again and glanced at Boy.
“Oh, go on, Gloss,” he encouraged, “only one more. Fact is I’m a bit hungry for corn-fed squirrel myself.”
“And I’m thinkin’ I wouldn’t turn up my nose at a plateful of stewed squirrel either,” seconded the father.
“All right, just one shot more, then, hit or miss,” laughed Gloss. “See that chap’s two ears and part of his head stickin’ up above the knot? I’ll take him this time, I guess, though it’s no easy shot.”