"Don't you hate to shoot them?" he asked.
The man looked into Jack's frank brown eyes for a moment and then moved a little closer.
"Say," he said, "I'll tell you a secret. I s'pose I've shot more birds and rabbits than any man in this county, if I do say it, and I never bring down a partridge or kill a chicken that I don't feel sorry for it. I ain't never got over it and I guess I never shall. But it's the only thing old Sam Bumpus is good for, I reckon, and it has to be done. Folks has to eat and I have to make a livin'. I don't do it for fun, though I don't know any finer thing in this world than trampin' off 'cross country with a gun and a good dog on a fine mornin'. It's my business, you see."
"Gee!" exclaimed Ernest. "I'd like that business better than insurance, I guess. That's what my father is."
"Who is your father?" inquired Sam Bumpus. "You see I'm very partic'lar who I know."
"He's Mr. Whipple. We're Ernest and Jack Whipple."
"Oh, you live down on Washburn Street?"
Ernest nodded.
"Well, that's all right," said Sam. "I guess you'll pass."
He seemed in no great hurry to be getting on. Taking an old black pipe from his pocket he filled it from a greasy pouch and lighted it. He took a few reflective puffs before he spoke again.