“He's quite right, Stewart,” said his friend Sandy, who was hugely enjoying himself. “You know well enough you are down on the farmer chaps who go pot hunting before season. It's rotten sport, you know.”
“Oh, hell! Will you shut up! Can't I shoot over my dog when he points? I'm not out shooting. If I want to give my dog a little experience an odd bird or two don't matter. Besides, what the—”
“Oh, come on, Stewart! Get in, and get a move on! You know you are in the wrong. But I thought you were a better shot than that,” added Sandy.
His remark diverted Duff's rage.
“Better shot!” he stormed. “Who could shoot with a—a—a—” he was feeling round helplessly for a properly effective word,—“with a fellow yelling at you?” he concluded lamely. “I'd have had a brace of them if it hadn't been for him.”
“In that case,” said Barry coolly, “I saved you from the law.”
“Saved me from the law! What the devil do you mean, anyway?” said Stewart. “If I want to pick up a bird who's to hinder me? And what's the law got to do with it?”
“Well, you know, I'm not sure but it might have been my duty to report you. I feel that all who break the game laws should be reported. It is the only way to stop the lawless destruction of the game.”
Barry spoke in a voice of quiet deliberation, as if pondering the proper action in the premises.
“Quite right, too,” said Sandy gravely, but with a twinkle in his blue eye. “They ought to be reported. I have no use for those poachers.”