“Oh, Fuss, my dear, dear doggie!” he cried, “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
The Skye terrier was lying on the keeper’s knees and having a snow styptic.
Soon the blood ceased to flow, and Fuss licked his young master’s hands, and presently got down and ran around and wanted to go to earth again; and though Archie felt he could never forgive himself for his awkwardness, he was so happy to see that Fuss was not much the worse after all.
But there would be no triumphant home-returning; he even began to doubt if ever he would be a sportsman. Then Branson consoled him, and told him he himself didn’t do any better when he first took to the hill.
“It is well,” said Mr Walton, laughing, “that you didn’t shoot me instead.”
“Ye-es,” said Archie slowly, looking at Fuss. It was evident he was not quite convinced that Mr Walton was right.
“Fuss is none the worse,” cried Branson. “Oh, I can tell you it does these Scotch dogs good to have a drop or two of lead in them! It makes them all the steadier, you know.”
About an hour after, to his exceeding delight, Archie shot a hare. Oh joy! Oh day of days! His first hare! He felt a man now, from the top of his Astrachan cap to the toe caps of his shooting-boots.
Bounder picked it up, and brought it and laid it at Archie’s feet.
“Good dog! you shall carry it.”