He closed his eyes, and clung to the branch on which he lay with pure desperation. All thought of a consistent character became lost in abject terror. It seemed to him an age ere the man fired into the tree. Then suddenly a loud report reached his ears. Small branches of the tree fell about him, and he uttered a deep groan, as he felt a shock upon his face, and along one arm, which assured him he had been hit by some of the shots. The pain of a gun-shot wound is not immediate; the first effect is rather as if sensation had been suddenly stunned, but when the shock subsides, and the blood again resumes its wonted channels, the agony of the wound commences. Such was the case with Jacob Gray, and although but very few of the shots had struck him in the face, the neck, and on one arm, he could have screamed with pain in the course of a few moments, and it required all the counteracting influence of the master feeling of his mind—fear—to prevent him from discovering himself. Clinging still to the branch desperately he endured the pain in silence for he durst not even moan. His first groan had been drowned in the report of the gun, but now that the echoes had died away, and all was still, the least sound of pain from his lips might be his utter destruction. The men were silent for some moments after the discharge of the gun—then he who had fired it remarked in a disaffected tone,— “He ain’t there. It’s no use. He must have given us the slip.” “No, he could not stand that, I’m sure I couldn’t,” said the bill-sticker, “I never saw so many birds fly out of a tree in my life.” “That’s because we have hunted them from all the others, and they took refuge in this one blockhead,” cried the man with the gun, whose temper did not seem at all improved by the non-success of his expedition. “Well, you needn’t get in a passion,” suggested the other. “Who’s in a passion? How do you know I’m in a passion? I don’t believe you saw the man at all, and there’s an end of it.” “Upon my conscience—” “Bother your conscience—you’ve got none.” “Why, now you saw his things lying by the side of the pond yourself. What—suppose now he’s drowned himself really. How you’d look then. Why don’t you have the pond dragged—you know nobody will drag it for me.” “Why don’t you get in and feel about for him?” suggested the man with the gun. “What?” “Get into the pond and see if he’s there, I say.” “And put my foot on him perhaps. I’d sooner go to Jericho. I should never recover it. Suppose I was to go in, and put my foot on his very face. Oh, oh!” “You are a coward, that’s what you are, and you may hunt the fellow yourself for all I care.” “Don’t go away,” cried the bill-sticker. “Why—why—” “I shan’t stay here to be fooled any longer,” said the other. “Will you lend me the gun, then?” “Lend you my gun?” “Yes.” “I’ll see you particularly well—never mind.” So saying, he of the gun marched off in very great dudgeon, leaving the bill-sticker gazing after him.