"Don't you want shooting here? No; we didn't see the sign," replied Bobby.
By this time the man had approached, and Bobby could see his bloodshot little eyes flickering with anger.
"You lying little snipe," he roared. "You must have seen the sign. You couldn't help it. I've a mind to tan your hide good."
"What's this?" asked Mr. Kincaid's quiet voice.
The man whirled about.
"Oh, it's you, is it?" he snarled. "Well, what do you mean by trespassing on my farm?"
"I didn't know it was your farm, in the first place; and I didn't know shooting was prohibited in the second place."
"That's too thin. You came right by that sign at the corner. Now just make tracks off this farm about as fast as you can go."
"Certainly," agreed Mr. Kincaid, quite unruffled. "I never shoot on a man's land when he doesn't want me to."
He turned, and at once the man became abusive, just as a dog gains courage as his enemy passes. Bobby listened, his eyes wide with dismay and shock. Never had he heard quite that sort of language. Finally Mr. Kincaid happened to glance down at his small companion. He slipped the shells from his gun and leaned it against a stump.