“Not much, maybe,” said Hiram; “but you sometimes trade in venison. I s'pose you know, Leather-Stocking, that there is an act passed to lay a fine of five pounds currency, or twelve dollars and fifty cents, by decimals, on every man who kills a deer betwixt January and August. The Judge had a great hand in getting the law through.”
“I can believe it,” returned the old hunter; “I can believe that or anything of a man who carries on as he does in the country.”
“Yes, the law is quite positive, and the Judge is bent on putting it in force—five pounds penalty. I thought I heard your hounds out on the scent of so'thing this morning; I didn't know but they might get you in difficulty.”
“They know their manners too well,” said Natty carelessly. “And how much goes to the State's evidence, squire?”
“How much?” repeated Hiram, quailing under the honest but sharp look of the hunter; “the informer gets half, I—I believe—yes, I guess it's half. But there's blood on your sleeve, man—you haven't been shooting anything this morning?”
“I have, though,” said the hunter, nodding his head significantly to the other, “and a good shot I made of it.”
“H-e-m!” ejaculated the magistrate; “and where is the game? I s'pose it's of a good natur', for your dogs won't hunt anything that isn't choice.”
“They'll hunt anything I tell them to, squire,” cried Natty, favoring the other with his laugh. “They'll hunt you, if I say so. He-e-e-re, he-e-e-re, Hector—he-e-e-re, slut—come this a-way, pups—come this a-way—-come hither.”
“Oh! I have always heard a good character of the dogs,” returned Mr. Doolittle, quickening his pace by raising each leg in rapid succession, as the hounds scented around his person. “And where is the game, Leather-Stocking?”
During this dialogue, the speakers had been walking at a very fast gait, and Natty swung the end of his rifle round, pointing through the bushes, and replied: “There lies one. How do you like such meat?”