The dogs were delighted to get out: the setter fawned and cringed by way of showing his delight and thankfulness; the retriever stood boldly erect and barked his joy.
Maggie May proposed walking first to the distant blaeberry hill, and trying their luck among the wild pigeons.
“The worst of it is,” said Maggie, “that after the first volley they all fly away, and it may be hours before we see them again.”
They reached the hill at last, and approached the feeding-grounds of the doves very cautiously—almost creeping, in fact.
All at once the good setter started a flock that flew right over them.
Both Sandie’s barrels and both Maggie May’s rang out on the still autumn air almost simultaneously, and four birds fell.
But Willie’s gun, the trigger of which had been duly drawn, missed fire.
“Whatever is the matter?” cried the boy wonderingly.
Now, this gun was a muzzle-loader; but, if the truth must be told, the lad had never loaded a fowling-piece in his life before; and, being cross-questioned, here is how he confessed having done so now. First he had measured the charge of shot, and put that in, next the gunpowder, and finally the wad. When he had put on the cap, he thought himself a true sportsman, and fit for anything.
To say that Maggie May and Sandie laughed, would but poorly express the degree of merriment they experienced at Willie’s confession.