He moved quickly toward the dog who, quivering with that mysterious instinct found in the hunting dog, still held the point with taut muscles, nose and tail in line.
“Hello!” Barry called out. “It isn't the season yet for chicken. I say, Mr. Duff,” he shouted, “it isn't the chicken season, you know.”
“Better leave him alone,” said Sandy.
“But it isn't the season yet! It is against the law!” protested Barry indignantly.
Meantime Stewart Duff was closing up cautiously behind Slipper.
“Forward, old boy! Ste-e-e-ady! Forward!” The dog refused to move. “Forward, Slipper!”
Still the dog remained rigid, as if nailed to the ground.
“On, Slipper!”
Slowly the dog turned his head with infinite caution half round toward his master, as if in protest.
“Hello, there!” shouted Barry, “you know—”