they hopped as if they were alive. Jim Goodman swore audibly. He looked
to his cartridges. The whole field was in an uproar of mirth. The
gunshots were hardly audible for the yells and wild halloos of
merriment. The match at last was finished. Jim Goodman's last pigeon
hopped, and he was upon it in a rage. He took it up and examined it. It
was riddled with shot. He felt it, weighed it. Then his face grew
fairly black. From being only mean, he looked murderous. He was losing
money, and money was the closest thing to his soul. He looked around at
the yelling throng, one man at bay, and he achieved a certain dignity,
even in the midst of absurdity.

"This darned pigeon is wood," said he. "They are all wood, all I have
shot. This is a put-up job! It ain't fair." He turned to the young
fellow who had taken the pigeons, and who acted as referee.

"See here, John," he said, "you ain't going to see me done this way, be
you? You know it ain't a fair deal. Albert Dodd's shot clay pigeons, and
I've shot wood. It ain't fair."

"No, it ain't fair," admitted the young fellow reluctantly, with a side
glance at Doctor Gordon. Gordon made a movement, but Georgie K. was
ahead of him. James saw a roll of bills pass from his hands to Jim
Goodman's. Gordon came up to Georgie K.

"See here!" he said.

"Well," replied Georgie K., without turning his head.

"Georgie K."