Sam laid down his chalk. He dusted his hands a trifle theatrically.
“Like the name, do you?” said he. “Came to me all of a sudden.”
“It’s a crackerjack!” declared Poke warmly. “Hits the nail right on the head. But that makes me think, Sam—where’s that deer you were going to hit? Haven’t got that haunch in your pocket, have you?”
“No,” said Sam curtly.
“Bet you didn’t see a deer!”
“I—I didn’t.”
Poke was beginning to recover his spirits. “Huh! Knew you wouldn’t,” said he, and chuckled fatly. “This country’s hunted to death. Why, so many men with guns were out to-day that one of ’em had to let drive at another, just for something to shoot at.”
“What!” gasped Sam. “What’s that? What do you mean?”
“Just what I say.”
Sam pulled out his handkerchief, and wiped drops of cold sweat from his forehead. “But—but——” he faltered.