“I wouldn’t mind taking a shot at a sheep or a cow, just for fun,” he grinned. “It would be sport just to wing somebody’s old cow enough to make her run and kick up.”
“I fail to see where the fun would come in,” growled Don.
At the Powder Mill Dam, where the water came rippling over in a shining sheet, they lingered a while, and Bentley fired at a swimming fish, but did not touch it. Don would have been content to remain there longer, but his companion was eager to plunge into the woods and discover something to shoot.
The chatter of a squirrel caused Leon to hurry forward eagerly. They came in sight of the squirrel after a time, a handsome fellow, with a large, bushy tail, and Bentley began shooting, while Don looked on. After Leon had fired four times, the squirrel scampered off and disappeared, quite unharmed.
“Well, I have my doubts about your being able to hit a cow unless you put the muzzle of the rifle against her,” said Don.
Leon flushed, chagrined at his ill success.
“It’s a pretty good trick to hit a little object like a squirrel with this kind of a rifle,” he declared. “I bet you can’t do it.”
“I don’t see the fun in shooting squirrels, anyway,” retorted Don.
“Oh, you don’t?” grinned Bentley, tauntingly. “That’s because you know you can’t hit one. You don’t dare to try.”
He continued to talk in this manner till they came upon another squirrel, when he held out the rifle and invited Don to show what he could do.