“Aw, you missed him! Aw, gee!” suddenly bemoans Hen, overcome by disappointment.
“Didn’t neither. He flew just when I shot, and I couldn’t stop!” you reply, defensively—unmindful of the discrepancy evident between your denial and your excuse.
“If you’d let me shoot I’d have got him,” declares Hen, unplacated.
You proceed to load. Hen moodily holds aloof from helping you ram, and you regain in some measure your lost caste only when you offer him the privilege of the ammunition flasks. These he dons, and by this little touch of diplomacy you smooth over his ill humor.
Together you and he scout along the crispy ridge, ever on the qui vive for another mark, beast or bird. Crows scold. Ah, if you could but bag a crow! But they always flap off too soon. Bluejays jeer. You would stop that mighty quick if they would give you a chance. But they don’t. Even woodpeckers fight shy of that inimical, albeit not unerring, gun.
The gun aforesaid is now growing so heavy that the fact cannot be ignored. You balance it on one portion of your anatomy, and on another; yet the more it weighs and the sharper wax its angles, and you can secure no lasting ease.
“I’ll carry it,” volunteers Hen, prompt to take advantage of your significant maneuvers.
“Uh-uh,” you decline stanchly. You compromise by suggesting, in a moment, with off-hand bluffness: “Say, let’s sit down a while. There’s nothin’ up here to shoot.”
“Naw,” responds Hen, “I’ll tell you—let’s shoot woodchucks!”
The idea appeals. After “shooting” woodpeckers, “shooting” woodchucks ought to prove a pleasing diversion.