In a trice I let him have it, and he came crashing through the branches. Dick ran up and seized it, shaking. I saw yellow eyes, ears laid back, and the coon spitting and fighting for life. It was dying, but struck out, tearing Dick’s nose to threads. I ran up and planted the heel of my hunting boot on its neck, while Dick howled with his lacerated nose. "That’s a funny looking coon," I said, as I eyed the thing suspiciously. I heard Horace laugh and saw him turn and make a break for the road. I looked up. Old Bogair had run up, red-faced and breathless. "By gar," he yelled, as soon as he saw what I’d done, "vut fur you keeled ze house cat fur? Vut fur?" It was true; but never had I seen a tomcat look more like a coon. On a distant hillside I could see my deserting friend rolling on the grass and shouting. In vain I apologized. Old Bogair kept dancing around and shouting, "Vut fur you keel ze house cat fur? Vut fur?" "What are you damaged?" I said at last, with disgust. "Ah, en passant—dees one from T’ronto, I breeng. Hee’s registraire—fife taller, an’ fife fur treespaire." I paid it like a man. Old Bogair smiled and bowed, with his hand on his stomach. "Eet vus all right now." I took up the cat by the tail. "Vut fur? You don’t vant heem?" he gasped. "Yes, I do," I said, hotly. "He’s mine. I’ve paid for him and I want to take him over yonder and rub him under the nose of that villain that induced me to go hunting in an automobile and steered me on the premises of a damned Dago who keeps registered cats that look exactly like coons when up a tree." He thought I was complimenting him. "Voilà—I t’ank you," he said, bowing again, with his hand on his stomach. I hunted around an hour before I went to the machine. I waited to cool off. Dick found a fine covey, and I missed them right and left. I had lost my nerve and my luck. When I reached the machine, Horace was in, blinking, and we said not a word. It was my time to freeze. Smith had run out from town and fixed it. A little wire the size of a pencil-point had got an inch out of place, and it had been as dead as a log wagon on us. It was now exactly 3:30, but we decided we still had a chance to get a covey. We made the next three miles in beautiful time, meeting only one man driving a game, high-headed horse that swept by us without giving us the least notice. "If they were all bred like that one," I said, "a man in a machine might think he had some rights on the road." "Glad you are beginning to see the other side," said Horace. "We’ll be there by four," he said; "just the time the birds begin to feed good. Oh, we’ll get a few yet. It’s a long lane, you know. Our luck is turning." "This is fun," I said, as we flew along the newly-graveled road parallel with the creek, "fine, give it to her."