“Plague it,” he said at last, rising, “I can’t see very well without my glasses. Say, stop your guying, now, and look under here and see if you can see what’s wrong.” I got out as leisurely as a lord; all I could see was a small coil of wire, red hot. “I see it,” I said, solemnly. “The thing’s appendix is red hot. Give me an axe and I’ll open it up.” Jack howled with delight. I thought he’d die. Horatius smiled grimly. But it was one that said: “I’ll even this up yet.” “Put in your shells; we’ll hunt around toward that farm house, and up there I’ll ’phone to town and have Smith come out and fix it.” Thus he spoke, and I agreed. In fact, there was nothing else to do. We rolled the machine aside, the dogs were let out, and we were soon quartering a field toward a farm house. “Whose place is this?” I asked, as the dogs began to hunt down the wind. “Old Bogair’s a French Canadian. He came here three years ago from Canada—ticklish old fellow, but he knows me, and it’s all right.” I felt secure, for while the game law is very strict, requiring written permission to hunt on one’s premises, intended as a guard against pot hunters, no gentleman ever objected to another hunting on his farm. We started through a cedar wood in a glady spot and I saw Jack beginning to nose the wind and to throw up his head for quail. Then I heard my companion calling lustily for me to come. I rushed up, Jack at my heels. “What is it?” I asked. “A coon—a big coon—up in that cedar tree. Get on the other side, quick!” I ran around, and, sure enough, up among the branches, trying to hide, but showing the end of a brindled and streaked tail, was the coon. In a trice I let him have it, and he came crashing through the branches. Jack 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 Jack’s nose to threads. I ran up and planted the heel of my hunting boot on its neck, while Jack howled with his lacerated nose. “That’s a funny looking coon,” I said, as I eyed the thing suspiciously. I heard Horatius 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 keeld 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 registaire—fife tallar, 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.