bending close over
the book to see whether it was a woodcock or a quail the dog was
pointing, when Mr. Henry startled him as he said with a laugh,

"My boy, did you really think you'd get a partridge? Why, Dr. Carver
himself couldn't shoot a partridge with a rifle; why didn't you come and
ask me for my gun?"

"'Cause I didn't think you'd lend it to me," said Tom, "and I was afraid
you'd suspect something. I'll come to you to-morrow," he added, as a
quiet joke on his father.

But the way his father took his little joke nearly made him "have a
fit," as he told Jim Vail afterwards.

"All right, Tommy," said Mr. Henry, "come to me after breakfast and I'll
fix you out."

Another restless night followed by another beautiful morning, and down
across the field trudged Tom, Dick, and Harry, but it looked like a
brown shooting-coat walking by itself with two setters following after
it through curiosity. There went Tom with a real gun--the little
sixteen-bore--a real hunting-coat, sleeves rolled up and pinned to hold
them, and down below his knees, to be sure; real cartridges in his
pocket, and to make it complete two real bird-dogs. He was going to be
the man in the "bird book," and best of all there was no "on the sly"
about it.

Down back of the place beyond the "muck pond," where Tom had often
caught live bait for his father, and had slaughtered many a fine fat
frog, to say nothing of the turtles and lizards which had been the
starting of a small museum of which he was sole proprietor, down beyond
this pond he struck into the woods and let "Jet" the Gordon and "Bang"
the Irish setter run. He followed them closely. Soon they came to a
point, and he walked towards them. But here's where there was a
difference between the picture and his position at that moment; he
looked in vain for the bird; in the picture he could see it, but, try
his best, he could not see it in life. The dogs worried a little, he
stepped on a twig which cracked; whir! and up got Mr. Partridge from the
bushes--not exactly where Tom had expected--and whirled off, Tom
crouching down to see where he lit, to try him again. Time and again the
same thing happened, but Tom never could seem to see the bird till he
got up, and he never thought to try him flying. The dogs got tired of
this kind of shooting and came in "to heel," and finally, rather
discouraged and decidedly tired, Tom sat down to decide whether he would
go home or not. He was sitting under a l