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"Hello!" Barry called out. "It isn't the season yet for chicken. I say,
Mr. Duff," he shouted, "it isn't the chicken season, you know."
"Better leave him alone," said Sandy.
"But it isn't the season yet! It is against the law!" protested Barry
indignantly.
Meantime Stewart Duff was closing up cautiously behind Slipper.
"Forward, old boy! Ste-e-e-ady! Forward!" The dog refused to move.
"Forward, Slipper!"
Still the dog remained rigid, as if nailed to the ground.
"On, Slipper!"
Slowly the dog turned his head with infinite caution half round toward
his master, as if in protest.
"Hello, there!" shouted Barry, "you know--"
Just as he called there was on all sides a great whirring of wings. A
dozen chicken flew up from under Duff's feet. Bang! Bang! went his gun.
"Missed, as I'm a sinner!" exclaimed Sandy. "I thought he was a better
shot than that."
Back came Duff striding wide toward the buckboard. Fifty yards away he
shouted:
"Say! what the devil do you mean calling like that at a man when he's on
the point of shooting!" His face was black with anger.


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