There sounded the heavy explosion of a gun. The eagle screamed no more. Its great wings relaxed and it tumbled to the earth. Tom Jonah sprang away from the thrashing bird, which died hard. The man who had shot it strode in from the other side of the field.
It was not Lycurgus Billet. It was an oldish man, with a big, bushy head of hair and whiskers. He carried his smoking gun in the hollow of his arm.
"By cracky! I made a good shot that time, for a fact!" this stranger declared.
But he was not a stranger to, at least, one of the picnic party. Neale O'Neil cried out: "Oh, Mr. Buckham, that was a fine shot! And just in the nick of time."
Agnes almost fell over at this exclamation of her boy friend. She clung to Neale's jacket sleeve, whispering:
"Oh, dear me! Let's not speak to him! Come, Neale! let's run. I—I am so ashamed about those strawberries."
"Step on that furderinest wing, young feller," said the big, old man to Neale. "He's dead—jest as dead as though he'd laid there a year. He's jest a-kickin' like a old rooster with his head off. Don't know he's dead, that's all. Step on that wing; it'll keep him from thrashin' hisself to pieces," added the farmer, as Neale O'Neil obeyed him.
The girls looked on in awe. Tom Jonah stood by, panting, his tongue out and his plume waving proudly.
"That's a great dog," said Mr. Bob Buckham.
"And—— Why, hullo, son! you used to work for us, didn't you?"