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Of course, all of us had some good excuse for missing, Uncle Limpy-Jack’s being the only valid one–that his cap had snapped. He made much of this, complaining violently of “dese yere wuthless caps!” With a pin he set to work, and he had just picked the tube, rammed painfully some grains of powder down in it, and put on another cap which he had first examined with great care to impress us. “Now, let a ole hyah git up,” he said, with a shake of his head. “She got man ready for her, she ain’t got you chil-lern.” The words were scarcely spoken when a little darkey called out, “Dyah she come!” and sure enough she came, “lipping” down a furrow straight toward us. Uncle Limpy-Jack was on that side of the ditch and Milker-Tim was near him armed only with a stout well-balanced stick about two feet long. As the hare came down the hill, Uncle Jack brought up his gun, took a long aim and fired. The weeds and dust flew up off to one side of her, and she turned at right angles out of the furrow; but as she got to the top of the bed, Milker-Tim, flinging back his arm, with the precision of a bushman, sent his stick whirling like a boomerang skimming along the ground after her.

Tim with a yell rushed at her and picked her up, shouting, “I got her! I got her!”

Then Uncle Limpy-Jack pitched into him: “What you doin’ gittin’ in my way!” he complained angrily. “Ain’ you got no better sense ‘n to git in my way like dat! Did n’ you see how nigh I come to blowin’ yo’ brains out! Did n’ you see I had de hyah when you come pokin’ yer wooly black head in my way! Ef I had n’ flung my gun off, whar ‘d you ‘a’ been now! Don’ you come pokin’ in my way ag’in!”

Tim was too much elated to be long affected by even this severity, and when he had got out of Uncle Jack’s way he sang out:

“Ole Molly Hyah,
You’ ears mighty thin.
Yes, yes, yes,
I come a-t’ippin’ thoo de win’!”

So far the honors were all Uncle Jack’s and Milker-Tim’s, and it was necessary for the rest of us to do something. Accordingly, the bottom having been well hunted, the crowd struck out for an old field over the hill, known as “the long hillside.” It was thick in hen-grass and broom-straw, and sloped down from a piece of pine with a southern exposure on which the sun shone warm. We had not reached it before a hare jumped out of a bush near Charlie. In a few moments, another bounced out before one of the dogs and went dashing across the field. Two shots followed her; but she kept on till at last one of the boys secured her.

We were going down the slope when Peter called in great excitement,

“Heah a ole hyah settin’ in her haid. Come heah, Dan, quick! Gi’ me your gun; le’ me git him!”

This was more than Dan bargained for, as he had not got one himself yet. He ran up quickly enough, but held on tightly to his gun.

“Where is he? Show him to me: I ‘ll knock him over.”

As he would not give up the gun, Peter pointed out the game.

“See him?”

“No.”

“Right under dat bush–right dyah” (pointing). “See him? Teck keer dyah, Don, teck keer,” he called, as Don came to a point just beyond. “See him?” He pointed a black finger with tremulous eagerness.

No, Dan did not see, so he reluctantly yielded up the gun.

Peter took aim long and laboriously, shut both eyes, pulled the trigger, and blazed away.

There was a dash of white and brown, a yell, and Don wheeled around with his head between his forepaws stung by the shot as “molly” fled streaking it over the hill followed only by the dogs.