One of the kittens under Chet’s very chair was laboring heavily, trying to drag away a woodcock that seemed twice as large as itself. The other men laughed; Chet rescued the woodcock; the kitten fled and Job beamed with satisfaction and slapped his tail upon the floor.
Hayes cried: “By gad, McAusland, that dog has sense! I’d like to buy him.”
“You don’t want to buy him. He’s getting old. He won’t be able to hunt much longer.”
“Is he for sale?”
“Oh, you don’t want him,” Chet said uncomfortably. He hated to refuse any man anything.
“I’ll give you three hundred for him,” said Hayes.
Now three hundred dollars was as much cash as Chet was like to see in a year’s time, but—Job was Job. He hesitated, not because the offer attracted him but because he did not wish to refuse Hayes. He hesitated, but in the end he said, “You don’t want old Job.”
Gunther touched Hayes’ arm, caught his eye, shook his head; and Hayes forbore to push the matter. But he could not refrain from praising Job.
“I never saw as good a dog!” he declared.
“He is a good dog,” Chet agreed. “He’ll break shot, but that’s his only out. He’s staunch, he’ll mind, he works close in and he’s the best retriever in the County.”