He inclined to favor the scheme of climbing a tree, where he could open a bombardment at his leisure and smile at the anger of the buck that was so much interested in the hound.
But the difficulty with this plan was that of taking the weapon into the branches with him. To make his way up the trunk, he needed the use of all his limbs, arms as well as legs, and it was therefore out of his power to carry a heavy gun with him.
You will understand that the same obstacle would be encountered in grasping a limb and lifting himself upward, for a lad who drinks whiskey and smokes cigarettes can never be enough of an athlete to draw himself upward with a single arm.
At such times as I am describing the most sluggish brain thinks fast, and the thoughts I have named went through the head of Jim McGovern in a twentieth of the time taken to narrate them.
He was inclined to the theory that he ought to do something, though impatient with the continued yelling of Bob.
“Now’s your chance, Jim! What are you waiting for? Shoot quick, for he’ll soon kill the dog and then he’ll finish me!”
“If you’ll shut up for a minute,” shouted Jim, in reply, “I’ll shoot, but you’re making such an infernal rumpus that I can’t take aim.”
At this hint Bob ceased his appeals and something like silence settled over the exciting scene.
The fiery Hero saw that he would soon have the buck at his mercy, for the animal was tiring himself out by his savage charges. Sometimes he would lower his antlers and dash forward for twenty paces at the dog, which deftly avoided him and saved his strength. Then the buck would slowly fall back, all the time maintaining his defiant front and charging again, often before he had fully recovered from his preceding effort.
It was an interesting fact that, during the few minutes occupied by this singular contest, each of the combatants met with a hair-breadth escape, so to speak, from the other.