"You're a fine dog, Bowser, and I forgive you for being good for
nothing."




CHAPTER XXI.

FACE TO FACE.


Herbert Watrous, when he separated from his companions on that balmy
afternoon in Indian summer, assumed a loftiness of bearing which was far
from genuine.

The fact was, he felt dissatisfied with himself, or rather with the
rifle which his indulgent father had presented to him only a few weeks
before.

"I don't like the way the thing behaves," he said, as he stopped to
examine it; "father paid one hundred and twenty-five dollars for it, and
it was warranted the best. It's pretty hard to hit a deer a quarter of a
mile off, but I ought to have brought down that squirrel which was only
a hundred feet distant."

He turned the weapon over and over in his hand, looked down the barrel,
tried the hammer and trigger, carefully examined the wind-gauge and
vernier rear-sights, but could not see that anything was out of order.