bushes, and unconsciously was walking down this back road
towards the stable with the Flobert held close along his leg on the side
farthest away from the house, so that "no one could guess he had
anything." All looked smooth sailing. Suddenly he was startled by a
familiar voice,

"Hey, Tom!" it called; "what you got there?"

There was no escape.

"A rifle, sir," replied Tom, in a rather muffled voice.

"A what!" cried the voice.

"A rifle, sir," replied Tom, again.

"Bring it here," was the short reply, and over across the field went Tom
to his doom.

"Go back there and get one of those carpenters to give you a good sized
shingle," said Mr. Henry, "and give me the gun."

"Well," said Tom to himself, "I knew I was taking risks," and he
returned in a moment with the shingle, and looking his father straight
in the eye waited the next command.

"Now," said Mr. Henry, in his severest tones, "take that shingle and put
it up against that big tree, and give me a cartridge."

Surprise and wonder are no names for the feelings that ran through Tom's
mind; it made him tingle up and down his backbone--he couldn't say a
single word; but there were more surprises to follow.

"What you been shooting, Tommy? Elephants, hey?" said Mr. Henry, after
firing all the cartridges Tom had left; "or was it only small game--a
panther or lynx--you were after this morning?"

Tom's courage began to return, and as he found his father in such a
splendid mood he was not going to allow himself to be bluffed.

"I went out after partridges, sir," he said, "and I thought I'd have one
for supper to-night for mamma; but he wasn't there. I was sure I'd get
one."

In a short time Mr. Henry had the whole story, and not a word of fault
was found, and Tom thought he had the finest father in the world; he
thought so before, but after this incident there was no doubt about it.

* * * * *

On the evening of the same day Tom was again devouring the "bird book,"
as he had always called it. Mr. Henry, who had been writing at his desk,
pushed himself back, and looking at Tom, a smile crept over his face.
His son was exactly as he had been at that age, and the reason of his
lenient treatment of what many fathers would have given a severe
punishment for was because he knew a good deal of the world, and
especially how to treat a boy who had inherited a sportsman's love of
woods and guns, and was not to blame for it. Tom was