"It's not only dangerous to do these things," said Mr. Kincaid, "but it's a sure sign of a greenhorn. A man ought to be deadly ashamed to confess himself such an all-round dub."
Toward the end of the fall, and nearing Thanksgiving, the boys drove Bobby Junior out the old east road. After a time they turned off into a by-way deep with sand. It ended. They hitched the placid Bobby Junior to the top rail of a "snake-fence" climbed it, and headed toward a scrub-oak and popple thicket thrown like a blanket over the long slope of a hill. They walked cautiously, for by experience they had learned that at the very edge, and in the lea of an old burned log, it was possible a fine big cock-partridge might be sunning himself. The popples, shining silvery, were almost bare of leaves, but the scrub oaks clung tenaciously to a crackling umber-brown foliage. It was now near the close of the afternoon. The game bag was empty. Both boys trod on eggs, scrutinizing every inch of the ground before them.
"It's too late for 'em," whispered Bobby in discouragement. "There's not enough sun. They've gone in to feed."
But Johnnie seized his arm.
"There," he breathed, "See him! He's sitting in that little scrub oak—just to the left of the stub."
Bobby peered along his friend's arm. After a moment he made out a mottled spot of brown.
"I see him," said he, cocking his rifle. "It's his breast. I wish I could get at his head."
"He'll be gone in a minute!" warned Johnny.
It was Bobby's turn to shoot. He raised his weapon, aimed carefully, and pressed the trigger.
Immediately the thicket broke into a tremendous commotion. A scurrying of leaves, a brief exclamation of pain, a brown cap whirling through the air—and both boys turned and ran, ran as hard as they could up the hill until sheer lack of breath brought them to the ground. They stared at each other with frightened eyes from faces chalky white.