"A Sad Procession."
I went up to see who was the unfortunate victim of Norman’s stupid recklessness. Judge of my horror when I recognized my old friend Jenny! I had known Jenny as a puppy, when she lived at the dog fancier’s at the corner of the market to which I used to carry vegetables in bygone days. Poor old Jenny! she and I had been such friends! To think she should have come to this! That wretched, conceited boy!
We turned back towards the farm, a sad procession. The keeper put Jenny’s body into one of my panniers, and walked along by my side; the boys followed, with hanging heads and downcast looks.
The sportsmen were still sitting under the tree, and were surprised when they saw us coming. Seeing that something was wrong, and that one of my panniers was hanging heavily down, they got up and came quickly towards us. The boys hung back; the keeper went forward.
“What have they shot?” asked one of the gentlemen. “Is it a sheep or a calf?”
“It’s nothing to laugh at, sir,” replied the keeper; “it’s our very best dog, Jenny. That young gentleman shot her, thinking she was a partridge.”
“Jenny! Well! Catch me taking boys out shooting again!”
“Come here, Norman,” said his father. “Just see to what a pass your conceit has brought you! Say good-by to your friends, sir, and go straight home at once! You will put your gun in my room, and you will not lay a finger on it again till you have learned to have a more modest opinion of yourself!”
“But, father,” said Norman, trying to look as if he did not care, “everybody knows that all great sportsmen sometimes shoot their dogs by mistake!”