"What have you done to my cow, Mark Manning?"
Looking up, he saw the deacon but four rods distant.
Deacon Miller was an old man, of giant form, and harsh, irregular features. He was a very unpopular man in the neighborhood, and deservedly so. He had made home so disagreeable that his only son had gone away fifteen years before, and the deacon had never heard from him since.
"What have you been doin' to my cow?" he demanded, in a still harsher tone.
"Nothing, Deacon Miller," answered Mark, calmly.
"You don't mean to tell me the critter's makin' all this fuss for nothin', do you?"
"No; the poor animal has been shot."
"Has been what?" snarled the deacon.
"Shot! Shot in the face, and I am afraid its eyes are put out," replied Mark.
"Old Whitey shot in the eye," repeated the deacon, in a fury. "Then it's you that did it."