The guns were packed in their cases on the sleds, but Mr. Bradford's revolver was loaded and ready. He took careful aim at the partridge and fired. The bird, not thirty feet away, merely cocked its head to one side, and calmly eyed the discomfited marksman.
"Missed," said Mr. Bradford. "Suppose you try a shot, Roly. I've been out of practice too long."
"Yes," said Roly, "let me try. But why didn't the partridge fly away? They're awfully 'scary' at home."
"This is not the ruffed grouse, or partridge, of New England," explained his father, "but a different species. It is often called the 'fool hen,' because it is so stupid. You might fire a dozen times without inducing it to fly, and you can go up quite close to it if you wish. It's more sportsmanlike, though, to give the bird a chance."
Roly accordingly stood where he was, fired, and missed. Uncle Will then brought down the bird with his revolver, and later, David and Roly plucked and dressed it, with some assistance from Long Peter, and cooked it for their supper.
David awoke, one morning, to find his younger brother observing him with a curious expression in his eyes, the cause of which he was at a loss to discover.
"What in the world is the matter with your face, Dave?" said Roly, as soon as he saw that his tent-mate was awake.
"Matter with my face?" repeated David, sleepily. "Why, nothing. What makes you think so?"
"You don't look a bit natural," said Roly.
"Oh, come!" muttered David. "What are you talking about? I'm all right, I tell you;" and he gazed drowsily up at the canvas above him, through which the morning light filtered.