anks are perpendicular. Toward this pond the old man, with the gun
under his arm and the dog following, went. Here in the silence of the
woods, with just the two of them together, was to be a final test.

On the shelving bank Swygert picked up a stick and tossed it into the
middle of the pond with the command to "fetch." Comet sprang eagerly
in and retrieved it. Twice this was repeated. But the third time, as
the dog approached the shore, Swygert picked up the gun and fired.

Quickly the dog dropped the stick, then turned and swam toward the
other shore. Here, so precipitous were the banks, he could not get a
foothold. He turned once more and struck out diagonally across the
pond. Swygert met him and fired.

Over and over it happened. Each time, after he fired, the old man
stooped down with extended hand and begged him to come on. His face
was grim now, and, though the day was cool, sweat stood out on his
brow. "You'll face the music," he said, "or you'll drown. Better be
dead than called yellow."

The dog was growing weary now. His head was barely above water. His
efforts to clamber up the opposite bank were feeble, frantic. Yet,
each time as he drew near the shore Swygert fired.

He was not using light loads now. He was using the regular load of the
bird hunter. Time had passed for temporizing. The sweat was standing
out all over his face. The sternness in his eyes was terrible to see,
for it was the sternness of a man who is suffering.

A dog can swim a long time. The sun dropped over the trees. Still the
firing went on, regularly, like a minute gun.

Just before the sun set an exhausted dog staggered toward an old man
almost as exhausted as he. The dog had been too near death and was too
faint to care now for the gun that was being fired over his head. On
and on he came, toward the man, disregarding the noise of the gun. It
would not hurt him, that he knew at last. He might have many enemies,
but the gun, in the hands of this man, was not one of them. Suddenly
old Swygert sank down and took the dripping dog in his arms.

"Old boy," he said, "old boy."

That night Comet lay before the fire, and looked straight into the
eyes of a man, as he used to look in the old days.

Next season Larsen, glancing over his sporting papers, was astonished
to see that among promising Derbys the fall trials had called forth
was a pointer named Comet. He would have thought it some other dog
than the one who had disappointed h