“No, just cooling off,” I answered.
It was Ben Lester who spoke, and with him was Sanford and the dogs.
“Where is the deer that came this way? What luck have you had? Why aint you here watching?” yelled Sanford.
I did not stop to answer his volley of questions, but plunged into the river, and reached the opposite bank. Then, dressing myself, I explained.
“Well,” said Lester, as I finished, “no more could have been expected.”
“Why?” I asked rather indignantly; for, although I fully realized that I had proved myself a miserable shot, I did not like being accused of it in terms like these.
“No one could have done any better,” he answered.
“No better?”
“Not a bit. It was the duck-legged buck!”
“Are you sure?” I asked, feeling like a drowning man sighting a buoy; for here lay the shadow of an excuse for my failure.