Paul loved hunting and fishing; on Saturday afternoons he made the woods ring with the crack of his grandfather's gun, bringing squirrels from the tallest trees, and taking quails upon the wing. He was quick to see, and swift to take aim. He was cool of nerve, and so steady of aim that he rarely missed. It was summer, and he wore no shoes. He walked so lightly that he scarcely rustled a leaf. The partridges did not see him till he was close upon them, and then, before they could rise from their cover, flash!—bang!—and they went into his bag.
One day as he was on his return from the woods, with the gun upon his shoulder, and the powder-horn at his side, he saw a gathering of people in the street. Men, women, and children were out,—the women without bonnets. He wondered what was going on. Some women were wringing their hands; and all were greatly excited.
“O dear, isn't it dreadful!” “What will become of us?” “The Lord have mercy upon us!”—were the expressions which he heard. Then they wrung their hands again, and moaned.
“What is up?” he asked of Hans Middlekauf.
“Haven't you heard?”
“No, what is it?”
“Why, there is a big black bull-dog, the biggest that ever was, that has run mad. He has bitten ever so many other dogs, and horses, sheep, and cattle. He is as big as a bear and froths at the mouth. He is the savagest critter that ever was,” said Hans in a breath.
“Why don't somebody kill him?”
“They are afeared of him,” said Hans.
“I should think they might kill him,” Paul replied.