"Why not, I'd like to know?"
Brierly—that was the guide's name—turned toward Joe, and intimated that, if he could, he had better explain the situation.
"I am Mr. Warren's game-warden," said the boy, taking the hint. "I have been put here to watch his birds, and warn off all trespassers. This land is posted, and you must know it. There's a notice on that tree over there," he added, indicating the exact spot with his finger. "I can see it from here; and when you saw it, you ought to have turned back."
"How is this, Brierly?" exclaimed the guide's employer. "I paid you handsomely for a good day's shooting, and you assured me that you knew right where I could get it, without interference from any one."
"And you shall get it in these very woods, Mr. Brown," was the guide's reply. "You told me that you didn't care how much them English birds cost, or how bad old man Warren wanted to keep 'em for his own shooting, you would just as soon have them as any other game; and seeing that there ain't no law to pertect 'em, what's to hender you from getting 'em? Send out the p'inters and come on. This fool of a boy ain't got no power to make an arrest, and I'll slap him over if he gives us a word of sass."
"I know that I have no authority to take you into custody, but I can report you to one who has, and I'll do it before you are two hours older, if you don't get out of these woods at once," said Joe, resolutely.
"You will, eh?" Brierly almost shouted. "Then why don't you report them fellers?"
When the guide began speaking, it was with the intention of abusing Joe roundly for his interference with their day's sport, but just then there came an unexpected interruption.
It was a regular fusilade—four shots, which were fired as rapidly as the men who handled the guns could draw the triggers.