'Wal! but you don't mean to say you didn't see any deer?' exclaimed Wharton. 'Why, man, the park is full of them. Couldn't you hit 'ein?'
Snap put his finger in the muzzle of his Winchester, and held it up unsoiled.
'Never fired a shot, Dick,' he said. 'I stoned those fool-hens coming home, and my arm regularly aches with shying at them; but I can't understand about the deer.'
'Why, how do you mean?' someone asked.
'Well, going from here towards what you call the "Lone Mountain," the wind would be right for me, wouldn't it?'
'Slap in your teeth; couldn't be better, what there is of it,' replied Dick.
'Well, and yet every deer I saw had its head up; almost every one was going at a canter; and, though, I dare say, at one time and another, I must have seen forty, I never got what I should call a fair shot. You see, we've no cartridges to waste, and I wanted to kill clean, so as to get back at once to camp.'
'Didn't see no sign of bar or painter about, did you?' asked Wharton.
'No,' replied Snap; 'I suppose that is what must have been the matter, but I saw no sign.'
Old Wharton looked grave for a minute or two, but presently, after lighting his pipe, seemed to think better of it.