for shooting out of season. You know nothing makes you more furious than
hearing about chaps who pot chicken out of season."

"I know, I know, my boy." The father was apparently quite distressed.
"You are quite right, but--"

"Now, dad, I won't have it! You are not to tell me that I had no
business to stop him if I could. Besides, the law is the law, and sport
is sport."

"I quite agree, Barry. Believe me, I quite agree. Yet all the same, a
chap does hate to have his shot spoiled, and to shout at a fellow with
his gun on a bird,--well, you'll excuse me, Barry, but it is hardly the
sporting thing."

"Sporting! Sporting!" said Barry. "I know that I hated to do it, but
it was right. Besides talk about 'sporting'--what about shooting out of
season?"

"Yes, yes. Well, we won't discuss it. Go on, Barry."

"But I don't like it, dad. I don't like to think that you don't approve
of what I do. It was a beastly hard thing to do, anyway. I had to make
myself do it. It was my duty." The young man sat looking anxiously at
his father.

"Well, my boy," said his father, "I may be wrong, but do you think you
are always called upon to remonstrate with every law breaker? No, listen
to me," he continued hurriedly. "What I mean is, must you or any of us
assume responsibility for every criminal in the land?"