e of the procession, but gaining on the fugitive, who had
thrown aside his hoe, flung his hat to the ground, and was making
better progress than when he used to run races with the boys in his
younger days.

The fence was near and he strained every nerve. It looked as if man
and dog would reach it at the same moment, but the former put forth an
extra spurt and arrived a pace or two ahead, with the cur at his heels.

Rube, however, was not far to the rear. Seeing the crisis had come, he
stopped short, brought the musket to his shoulder, and, taking the best
aim he could, let fly with the whole load that clogged several inches
of the barrel.

He did not observe at the moment of pressing the trigger that his uncle
and the dog were in line, but it could have made no difference, since
the shot had to be made at that instant or not at all.

Just as the weapon was fired, Uncle Pete with a great bound cleared the
fence, landing on his hands and knees; and, rolling over on his back,
kicked the air with such vigor that his shoes flew off, one after the
other, as if keeping time with his frenzied outcries.

The yellow cur was scared, as a shark is sometimes driven off by the
loud splashing of a swimmer, and, though he leaped the fence, he
wheeled again, and, without harming the man, ran down the highway
toward the Woodvale school.

For a moment after firing, Rube Johnson believed he was killed. The
flint shot a spark among the powder grains, there was a flash, a hiss,
and then, as the fire worked its way to the charge inside, the
explosion came and he toppled over, half stunned, with the gun flying a
dozen feet away.

But his fear for his relative brought him to his feet, and he hurried
to the old gentleman, who was climbing uncertainly to an upright
posture.

"What's de matter?" asked Rube; "you ain't bit."

"I know dat; I warn't yellin' on _dat_ 'count."

"What fur den?"

"You black rascal, you shot me instid ob de yaller dog."

"Lemme see," said Rube, turning his uncle round and scanning him from
head to foot.

"I done pepper you purty well, uncle, but dare ain't any ob de slugs
dat hit yer--only de fine bird shot."

"How many ob dem?" was the rueful question.

"I don't tink dar's more dan five or six hundred; Aunt Jemimer can gib
her spar time de next six weeks pickin' 'em out; she'll enj'y it, but
dat shot ob mine scared off de mad dog, and yer oughter be tankful to
me, uncle, all yer life."

It was re