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. He looked ready
to strike. Barry looked at him steadily.

"But, I was just reminding you that it was not the season for chicken
yet," he said in the tone of a man prepared to reason the matter.

"What's that got to do with it! And anyway, whose business is it what I
do but my own?"

"But it's against the law!"

"Oh, blank the law! Besides--"

"Besides it isn't--well, you know, it isn't quite sporting to shoot out
of season." Barry's manner was as if dealing with a fractious child.

Duff, speechless with his passion, looked at him as if not quite sure
what form his vengeance should take.

"He's quite right, Stewart," said his friend Sandy, who was hugely
enjoying himself. "You know well enough you are down on the farmer chaps
who go pot hunting before season. It's rotten sport, you know."

"Oh, hell! Will you shut up! Can't I shoot over my dog when he points?
I'm not out shooting. If I want to give my dog a little experience an
odd bird or two don't matter. Besides, what the--"