Just as he called there was on all sides a great whirring of wings. A dozen chicken flew up from under Duff's feet. Bang! Bang! went his gun.
“Missed, as I'm a sinner!” exclaimed Sandy. “I thought he was a better shot than that.”
Back came Duff striding wide toward the buckboard. Fifty yards away he shouted:
“Say! what the devil do you mean calling like that at a man when he's on the point of shooting!” His face was black with anger. He looked ready to strike. Barry looked at him steadily.
“But, I was just reminding you that it was not the season for chicken yet,” he said in the tone of a man prepared to reason the matter.
“What's that got to do with it! And anyway, whose business is it what I do but my own?”
“But it's against the law!”
“Oh, blank the law! Besides—”
“Besides it isn't—well, you know, it isn't quite sporting to shoot out of season.” Barry's manner was as if dealing with a fractious child.
Duff, speechless with his passion, looked at him as if not quite sure what form his vengeance should take.