“I can’t help it,” responded the boy from Central High. “I was reeling in, wasn’t I? He came right up and jumped for my fly. Call off your old fish, if you don’t want him caught on my hook and line.”
But Billy Long was too saucy that time. He was playing the fish while he talked, just as well as he knew how. The farmer gave a yell, let the dog’s strap run through his hand, and the beast, with an angry bay, dashed straight at the youthful fisherman. 173
Perhaps the farmer did not really intend doing such a cruel thing. For the dog would have torn Billy Long to pieces had he reached him.
There was a shout from across the stream—on the side where Laura stood—and a man leaped into the open. He carried a gun. As he reached the bank of the brook he threw up the shot-gun and erupted the contents of one barrel into the fore-shoulder of the angry dog.
The distance was scarcely two rods. The small shot peppered the dog well, and gave him a whole lot to think of beside grabbing a defenseless boy.
The farmer began to yell vociferously; the dog raised his voice even more loudly and, after falling and rolling over and over on the ground for a moment, he got to his feet and cut into the bushes like a flash. He was more scared than hurt.
“I’ll have you arrested for that!” yelled the dog’s owner, shaking both clenched fists at the young man with the gun.
“You’d better thank me that the beast did not grab that boy,” was the reply.
The young man with the gun seemed perfectly calm. He was a pale-faced young man, well dressed in a hunting suit, and with narrow boots on his rather small feet. He was doubtless a city sportsman. 174
“I bet I know who you be, ye scoundrel!” bawled the farmer.