“We’ll get along all right,” replied Jack. “But we must—hullo! here are tracks in the snow!”
“Hist! a rabbit, suah you boarn!” whispered Pickles.
Up came his gun. A tremendous report followed, and the colored youth went over backward in the snow. The heavy charge in the firearm completely demolished the rabbit, which had been close at hand.
“Did—did—I hit him?” gasped Pickles, as he scrambled to his feet with a wild stare in his eyes.
“Oh, no, you didn’t hit him, you simply scattered him,” returned Boxy, doubled up over the sight Pickles had presented as he went over. “You knocked him into six million pieces.”
“Dat so?” Pickles gazed ruefully at the tufts of fur lying about. “By golly! dat was a most terribul shot, wasn’t it?”
“I should say it was,” returned Jack. “What made you load up so heavily?”
Pickles scratched his woolly head.
“I dun racken I loaded dat yere gun twice,” he said, slowly. “I loaded her up yisterday, an’ dis moanin’ I did de same.”
A perfect howl of laughter went up, and it increased instead of diminished when Pickles went around looking for enough of the rabbit to take back to camp. He was unsuccessful.