Ponto was no deer-hound. He was somewhat too heavily built for that kind of sport; but any deer of good common sense would get away from his neighborhood, all the same. The certainty that the dog could not catch him would not interfere with his running.
Ponto's discovery was a really splendid buck, and he was in a terrible hurry when his long, easy bounds brought him out from among the forest-trees into the more open ground in the edge of the swamp. Porter thought he had never before seen any thing half so exciting, but the buck went by like a flash.
Just half a minute later, Corry turned ruefully to his cousin, and asked him,—
"Port, what did you and I fire both barrels of our guns for?"
"Why, to hit the deer."
"At that distance? And with small shot too? If they'd reached him, they'd hardly have stung him. Let's go home."
Porter was ready enough; and it was not long before even Ponto gave up following the buck, and came panting along at the heels of his master. He looked a little crestfallen, as if he were nearly prepared to remark,—
"No use to drive deer for boys. I did my duty. No dog of my size and weight can do more."
They had a tramp before them. Not that they were so far from home, but then it was one long wade through the snow until they reached the road; and Porter Hudson knew much more about the weight of rabbits by the time he laid his game down at the kitchen-door of the farmhouse.
They had been growing heavier and heavier all the way, until he almost wished he had not killed more than one.