Gloatingly you and Hen examined your prize, inch by inch, investigating him from his two front teeth to his scraggly tail. Most of all did you gloat upon the blood, striking proof of your valor, and ere you had finished you well-nigh could have drawn a diagram of the shot holes.
’Twas established that the aim had been perfect (yourself demonstrating to Hen precisely what had been your course of action), that the gun had shot tremendously, and that the woodchuck was a very prodigy of size and strength.
Poor ’chuck! He had made his last foray, long enough had he dared to live, and now, despite his cunning, he had fallen to a boy who shut both eyes before firing.
Homeward, is it? Certainly! Nothing is left to be gained on the trail. With the stride of conquerors, you and Hen march through the village—you with gun and ammunition flasks, Hen with the woodchuck, which he has appropriated, dangling by the tail.
“Well, well! Where did you get that fellow?” query the men.
“Oh, John and me shot him,” explains Hen.
“Crickety, but ain’t he a big one! How’d you get him?” query the boys.
“We shot him! And he was runnin’, too!” boasts Hen.
“Aw, you found him!”
“Didn’t neither—did we, John? You come here and I’ll show you the shot holes in him!”