“Get out!” retorted the dark-eyed lad. “I don’t want to shoot him. See how handsome he looks, perched on that limb with his tail up over his back.”
Leon sneered and scoffed, persisting that Don did not wish to shoot because he knew he could not hit the squirrel, till, with an angry exclamation, the doctor’s son caught the rifle from his companion’s hand, took careful aim and fired.
From the limb an object dropped toward the ground, which it struck with a sodden plump.
“You got him!” shouted Leon. “Why, you’re a crackajack!”
He ran forward, and Don followed slowly with the rifle, a strange look on his face. There was a rustling beneath the tree, and Bentley made a forward dive, crying:
“Great smoke! he’s trying to get away! You broke his back!”
The other boy stood still, his eyes following the crippled squirrel that was trying to drag itself away to a place of concealment. Leon headed off the wretched little creature and began poking it about with a stick he had picked up.
“Stop that!” snarled Don, springing at his companion, with his eyes blazing. “Why don’t you kill him? Can’t you see he’s suffering?”
Then he caught the stick from Leon’s hand and struck the squirrel till the tiny animal lay motionless and dead at his feet. This done, Don straightened up and stood staring down at the work of his hand, his lips quivering queerly, while something seemed to swell up in his throat and almost choke him.
“Hoop-la!” shouted the other lad. “You’re a mighty hunter and a dead shot, but I’ll bet you a quarter you miss the next one you shoot at.”