marmaduke now demanded and received a brief explanation of affairs.

seeing a way out of the difficulty, he pointed obliquely over the injured man’s shoulder, and said, “will, there is a plump and sweet partridge in that tree;—no, lower[356] down;—further on;—hadn’t you better shoot it for him?”

after a moment’s deliberation the man who loved a good silver ring agreed to be satisfied with the partridge.

yet an evil smile curved his lips—a smile that foreboded mischief to something—perhaps to the partridge.

will had no sooner fired than a howl of awful agony burst from the man’s lips, and having spread his huge hands over the region where the ignorant suppose their vitals are situated, he bowed his body downwards, and there passed over his face a look of suffering that, in sublime tragedy, almost equalled the frightful spasms so graphically portrayed in our patent medicine almanacs.

almost—nothing can quite come up to the patent medicine almanacs in that respect.

with a voice that was appalling in its unrestrained vehemence, he fell to delivering hideous ecphoneses,—too hideous, in fact, to be repeated here,—and then gasped faintly, “you’ve done it now!”

poor will! he was nearly crazed with grief.

“oh!” he groaned, “have i killed him? have i taken a fellow-creature’s life? has my hastiness at last had a fatal result?”

“oh,” marmaduke murmured, “how could will’s ball glance so as to enter that man’s body?”

for several seconds the two unlucky hunters stood perfectly still, held to the spot by devouring horror and anguish.

during this time, the forester seemed to be undergoing exquisite pain; but presently, with an effort worthy of a hero, he struggled to an erect posture, and said, with a faltering tongue: “young men—perhaps—i’m, i’m gone.—i—can’t blame—you, sir;—a man—can’t tell—how his ball—may glance.—go,—both of you,—go—and get a—doctor.—bring a—doctor—you,” to will; “and you—” to marmaduke, “go east—from—from here—half a-mile—to my—father’s.—i—i—can stay—alone.”

“poor, poor fellow,” said will, with tears in his eyes. “can you stay here alone and suffer till we come back?”

“yes,” groaned the wounded man. “i can—stay-till—the other—fellow—finds my—father.—it won’t—be long.”

[357]

“let me at least see your wound before i go,” will entreated. “perhaps i could ease you, or even save your life.”

“go! oh go!” urged the wounded man. “i’ll—hold out—if you are—quick.”

then the two hunters strode sorrowfully away in their different directions—will with a vague notion that the nearest surgeon lived several miles to the south—marmaduke thinking that the “peasants” of his country are a hardy and noble race.

they were barely out of sight on their errands of mercy when a change most magical came over the sufferer’s face. two minutes before, and his features wore the tortured look of an invalid “before taking our prescription;” now they wore the happy smirk of a convalescent, relieved from all pain, “after taking our prescription.”

then, villain-like, he muttered: “i hardly expected to make so much out of the two fools—a whole deer! that’s striking it pretty rich! i don’t shoot a deer in a month; but this is just as good, for i can make off with this one at my leisure. well, i reckoned that little ‘wound’ would work.”

a horrible chuckle escaped from his lips, he sprang to his feet as sound in health as a person could expect to be, walked up to will’s deer, and coolly began to drag it away into the depths of the forest. all that part of the forest was known to him, and he soon dragged his prey into a place of concealment where its rightful owners would hardly find it.

“there,” he muttered, “i guess i have dragged the old feller far enough. he’s safe enough here till i can take him home. now, they haven’t been gone long, and if they keep on, they may get lost; and it’s mean to have ’em get lost on a fool’s errand. perhaps this’ll bring ’em back on a keen run. how they will hunt for me and the deer!”

as the thief spoke he retraced his steps a little way, discharged a pistol concealed on his person, and then slunk back to his hiding-place. yes, he was so humane[358] that he did not wish the two deluded hunters to bring succor to a man who did not need it.

the report of his pistol had the desired effect. both will and marmaduke heard it; and fearing that the poor wretch was attacked by some foe, human or otherwise, they hastened back to the scene of bruises and wounds, meanness and trickery.

of course they found nothing, and, although they were heroes, they were unable to track the knave to his hiding-place. will was furious. he had felt so grieved at having wounded a fellow-creature; so proud, a moment before, of having been the first to kill a deer; and now he naturally and correctly concluded that the “wound” was a mere ruse on the rogue’s part, in order the more surely to get possession of the deer.

“will, i took the fellow to be a very fair example of our peasants; an honest, ingenuous and hardy forester. how bitterly i am deceived.”

will replied: “well, i took the fellow for a hypocrite and a downright knave from the first. it isn’t so much the deer,—though that is really a great loss for me,—but the depravity that the man has shown, that grieves me. and i was just going to give him a new dollar gold piece to squander his affection on! but, marmaduke,” with a flash of his old jovialness, “don’t talk about peasants and peasantry, for free america knows no such word. marmaduke, i’m afraid your trip to europe in the summer filled your mind with some ridiculous notions. shake them off, and be yourself again.”

“well, will, you are in the right. now, suppose that we look for the partridge, for i believe your ball killed it.”

“no, marmaduke. i missed it, for i saw it fly away untouched, just as that man doubled himself up and began to howl.”

“then you took it for granted that he received the ball?”

“yes. well, it is useless to remain here, so let us hurry on to the trysting-place, due west, if we want to meet the others. but if i don’t unearth that wretch[359] to-morrow, it will be because—because his ill-gotten deer poisons him!”

having taken this dreadful resolution, the two set off for the rendezvous, where they arrived just in time to meet with the other hunters.

“ho!” cried steve, when he observed will’s gloomy looks. “ho, old fellow! your face indicates a moody mood.”

“well,” snarled will, “have you shot some school-boy’s grammar, and read it through?”

then he narrated his encounter with the man in the forest.

it was received with plaintive cries of astonishment, anger, and horror.

“well, will,” said steve after the first paroxysms of rage had subsided, “i gather two morals—morals full of instruction, too—from your narrative.”

as no one inquired what these “morals” might be, the speaker was obliged to resume his discourse rather awkwardly. but no one could cow steve into silence.

“yes, boys; two morals——”

a pause—in vain.

“two morals, i say. in the first place, when you are in a forest like this, always protect the fourth member of the left paw with a sculptured silver ring. in the second place, never fire at a partridge when a jewelled rustic occupies a log some thirty feet southeast of your left ear, as marmaduke hints this one did. it is as dangerous as a nest of hornets on the north pole.”

“don’t be so atrocious,” said charles. “in my mind’s eye, i can look back eight years or so, and see a battered-knuckled urchin called steve goodfellow, wriggling on a bench in a certain sunday school, and turning idly round and round a beautiful silver ring, that adorned first one and then another of his fingers.”

steve sat down so suddenly that he burst the paper collar around his neck. however, he took no notice of this, but changed the subject and diverted the boys’ attention by saying: “i say, will and marmaduke, george, as well as you, has had disappointments to-day. i shouldn’t relate this little anecdote, if george hadn’t given[360] me permission; because it would be too mean for even me, and that is saying a good deal. o dear! i’m sorry, boys; but i can’t help it!”

“well, steve, there is one thing in your favor,” charles said soothingly. “you always confine what you are pleased to call your meanness to us boys; and we can survive it all—in fact, we expect it from you, old fellow.”

“thank you, charley; you can see below the surface, and see just how heavily and guiltily my great heart beats when i attempt to insult over you boys. but now for my anecdote. george and i meet in a ‘bowery glade.’ though we glare wickedly round in search of prey, i see nothing but nature’s loveliness. george espies a phenomenon high up in a monster of the forest, ‘an old primeval giant,’ whose branching top fanned the blue sky. in other words, he espies something queer, perched high in a grand old fir. it is large; it is strange; it moves. ‘it is a creature of the air,’ thinks george. ‘it is! it is a bird new to science! oh, what pleasing discovery do i make? am i about to cover myself with glory? i am! i feel it in my inmost heart, my heart of heart. steve,’ he continues, ‘i know my destiny—the pursuit of science. my fate is now marked out; i shall write ornithologies! now i must shoot this percher down; i cannot climb to catch it, though more’s the pity.’ o boys, it was, alas! a bird’s nest! a great big bird’s nest! and when he fired, it was no more. this is my mournful tale: this is my anecdote.”

“steve, don’t relate any more such anecdotes,” said charles, “or you will burst your ‘great heart’ as you have burst your paper collar.”

“steve, did george tell you how you might relate that incident?” will asked suspiciously. “but, steve,” he added gravely, “be good enough to tell me what you have shot to-day to make you so merry.”

“with the greatest pleasure,” steve replied grimly. “i shot the barrel of my gun all to pieces.”

“what?” will asked, at a loss to take steve’s meaning.

“in other words,” mr. lawrence said, “stephen overcharged his gun, and it burst—burst with a vengeance.”

[361]

“it seems to me that a good many things have burst, or failed to burst, to-day,” george muttered.

then they proceeded to their camp,—as marmaduke loved to call the miserable shanty that barely afforded them shelter,—affecting to carry their guns and their almost empty game-bags as though they were veteran hunters.

each one was thinking about the deer which was rightfully will’s, and each one felt that the affair was not over yet.

it is with some real reluctance that the scene with the forester is introduced, because romancers take altogether too much delight in parading villainy; but at one time this scene seemed, in a measure, to be necessary to the construction of this story. afterwards the writer had not the moral courage to leave it out.

most readers can remember that in almost all novels that they have read, (excepting, of course, the “intensely interesting” ones,) there was at least one chapter which, taken by itself, seemed tiresome and useless; but which, woven in skilfully, and taken in connection with the whole, was necessary to the perfection of the novel.

after writing these two paragraphs, in order to disarm all hostile criticism, we shall imagine a conscientious reader’s referring to this chapter, after he has carefully perused the entire story, and saying, with a horrible fear that his usual insight into things has forsaken him: “well, i can’t see the particular need and worth of this chapter,” while we furnish this consoling information—“neither can we!”

now, carpers, if you can apprehend the meaning of all this, draw out your engines and bring them into play.

another point: let not the conscientious reader rack his brains in a vain endeavor to discover what particular “follies,” or “foibles,” are attacked in this chapter, for the writer himself does not know; though he is morally certain that he has not written these two chapters just to injure the trade in silver rings.