“How is supper, Tom?” said Paul. “Any prairie chicken? Partridge?”
“Huh! Chicken! partridge! deer!”
“Great Cæsar’s ghost! Tom, you don’t mean to say you’ve got all that?” cried Paul.
“Huh!” grunted Tom, delighted. “Plenty, plenty on mountain.”
“Oh, I say, old boy! What about four o’clock tomorrow morning, eh?” said Paul.
“Tomorrow? No! Business first. Tonight and tomorrow to business. After that I’m your man. By the way, does the young lady by any chance handle a gun?”
“Handle a gun? Rather! At least, she could six years ago.”
“Paul! Paul!” said Dalton solemnly. “What have I done that the gods should so order my lot?”
After supper, while Paul and old Tom went over the guns and the hunting gear and made all preparations for a week’s hunt, Dalton buried himself in his papers, seeking to discover how he might utilise the soft pedal without injuring his case, with the result that before they went to sleep he had his new campaign fully planned.
“It’s all right, Paul,” he said. “We will get him all the same, but with considerably less suffering to the old sinner.”