"Huntin', Pa," the youngster said.
"Haven't I told you to leave that rifle alone?"
"You didn't tell me today."
"I don't have to tell you every day!"
"I didn't use but six shots."
Joe roared so loudly that the pastured mules looked curiously at him, "It's no matter if you used only one!"
"I got six squirrels," Tad explained. "Mike, he put 'em up a tree and kept 'em there. I just shot. Smacked every one of 'em plumb through the head."
"Give me that rifle," Joe snatched the weapon, "and get in the house before I tan your hide!"
"Yes, Pa."
The squirrels in his hand, the dog beside him, Tad trotted toward the house. There was nothing meek or subdued in his squared shoulders and upturned head, and for a moment Joe had an uncomfortable feeling that he had been tested by an eight-year-old. He scowled and shrugged the thought away while he felt a rising pride. Six squirrels with six shots was good shooting anywhere, and young ones wouldn't be all they should be if they didn't have a bit of the devil in them. He must keep the rifle where Tad couldn't reach it, though. Maybe this fall, or as soon as he could spare a day from the fields, it would be a good idea if he took Tad hunting with him. He really wouldn't mind Tad's using the rifle if he could be sure that it was safely used.