Peter took a thin slice of maplewood from his pile, and seated himself on his bunk. He held the wood at arm's length until he saw a dog in it, and Buddy leaned against his knee.
“Now, this is going to be a real funny dog,” said Peter, as his keen blade sliced through the wood as easily as a yacht's prow cuts the water. “S'pose we put his head up like that, hey, like he was laughing at the moon?” Two deft turns of the blade. “And we'll have this funny dog a-sitting on his hind legs, hey?” Four swift turns of the knife.
“That's a funny dog!” laughed Buddy. “Give me the funny dog.”
“Now, don't you be so impatient,” said Peter. “This is going to be a real funny dog, if you wait a minute. There, now, he's scratching that ear with this paw, and he's ready to shake hands with this one, and”—two or three quick turns of the knife—“there he is, cocking his eye up at you, like he was tickled to death to see you had your face washed this morning without howling no more than you did.”
“Ho, ho!” laughed Buddy; “that's a funny dog! Now make a funny rabbit, Uncle Peter.”
“No, siree, Buddy!” said Peter sternly.
“You promised to be good if I made a dog, so you just sit down and be it. When a body makes a promise, he'd always ought to keep it, if it ain't too inconvenient. So you stay right here and don't touch the stove or anything, whilst I get in some wood. That's my duty, and when a man has a duty to do he ought to do it, unless something he'd rather do turns up meanwhile.”
Peter took his shot-gun. There was always a chance of a shot at a rabbit. He crossed the plank to the shore, but there was not much burnable driftwood along the slough. What there was had been frozen in the ice, and Peter pushed his way up to where the slough made a sharp turn. In such places abundant driftwood was thrown against the willows at high water, and Peter set his gun against a log and filled his arms. He was stooping for a last stick when a cotton-tail darted from under the tangled pile and zig-zagged into the willow thicket.
Peter dropped his wood and grasped his gun and ran after the rabbit, but his foot turned on a slimy log and he went down. He had a bad fall.
For a man just beginning a career of superhuman goodness Peter swore quite freely as he sat on the log and hugged his ankle, grinning with pain. It relieved his mind, and the rubbing he gave his ankle relieved the pain, and he felt better all through when he put his foot to the ground and tried it. He limped a little, but he grinned, too, for he knew Buddy would be amused to see Uncle Peter limping “like Buddy.” Buddy could see something funny in anything.