stop under a mimosa thorn and suddenly stiffen out as if he had been
petrified, John made the best of his way towards him. Pontac stood still
for a few seconds, and then slowly and deliberately veered his head
round as though it worked on a hinge to see if his master was coming.
John knew his ways. Three times would that remarkable old dog look round
thus, and if the gun had not then arrived he would to a certainty run
in and flush the birds. This was a rule that he never broke, for his
patience had a fixed limit. On this occasion, however, John arrived
before it was reached, and, jumping off his pony, cocked his gun and
marched slowly up, full of happy expectation. On drew the dog, his eye
cold and fixed, saliva dropping from his mouth, and his head, on
which was frozen an extraordinary expression of instinctive ferocity,
outstretched to its utmost limit.

Pontac was under the mimosa thorn now and up to his belly in the warm
red grass. Where could the birds be? _Whirr!_ and a great feathered
shell seemed to have burst at his very feet. What a covey! twelve brace
if there was a bird, and they had all been lying beak to beak in a space
no bigger than a cart wheel. Up went John's gun and off too, a little
sooner than it should have done.

"Missed him clean! Now then for the left barrel." Same result. We will
draw a veil over the profanity that ensued. A minute later and it was
all over, and John and Pontac were regarding each other with mutual
contempt and disgust.

"It was all you, you brute," said John to Pontac. "I thought you were
going to run in, and you hurried me."

"Ugh!" said Pontac to John, or at least he looked it. "Ugh! you