So, side by side, you and Hen gallantly stepped, with the visible tokens of your calling, homeward bound. At the entrance to your alley, however, Hen inclined to lag; and as the back yard was being traversed he fell further behind. Your own pace was slower and less confident, now.
Hen flung you the woodchuck.
“I’ve got to go,” he maintained. “You can take him.”
The back door opened, and mother stood and gazed upon you, even as Hen was discreetly retiring.
“John!” she said. “What have you been doing?”
Beneath its powder grime your face paled. At once you began to realize how your lip was puffing, and how your shoulder was aching.
“We were huntin’ woodchucks,” you quavered.
“The idea!” said mother.
“We got one, too,” you offered, in piteous defense.
“Mercy!” exclaimed mother, at the sight. “Leave it right there, and come straight into the house!”