They called him, but the old man was a little deaf.  Some of the men rode to the top of the hill but could not see him.  In his zeal he had got a considerable distance away.  Meanwhile, here was his dog, pointed.

If any one had looked at Larsen’s face he would have seen the exultation there, for now his chance had come—­the very chance he had been looking for.  It’s a courtesy one handler sometimes extends another who is absent from the spot, to go in and flush his dog’s birds.

“I’ll handle this covey for Mr. Swygert,” said Larsen to the judges, his voice smooth and plausible, on his face a smile.

And thus it happened that Comet faced his supreme ordeal without the steadying voice of his god.

He only knew that ahead of him were birds, and that behind him a man was coming through the straw, and that behind the man a crowd of people on horseback were watching him.  He had become used to that, but when, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the face of the advancing man, his soul began to tremble.

“Call your dog in, Mr. Larsen,” directed the judge.  “Make him back stand.”

Only a moment was lost, while Peerless, a young dog himself, came running in and at a command from Larsen stopped in his tracks behind Comet, and pointed.  Larsen’s dogs always obeyed, quickly, mechanically.  Without ever gaining their confidence, Larsen had a way of turning them into finished field-trial dogs.  They obeyed, because they were afraid not to.

According to the rules the man handling the dog has to shoot as the birds rise.  This is done in order to test the dog’s steadiness when a gun is fired over him.  No specification is made as to the size of the shotgun to be used.  Usually, however, small-gauge guns are carried.  The one in Larsen’s hands was a twelve gauge, and consequently large.

All morning he had been using it over his own dog.  Nobody had paid any attention to it, because he shot smokeless powder.  But now, as he advanced, he reached into the left-hand pocket of his hunting coat, where six shells rattled as he hurried along.  Two of these he took out and rammed into the barrels.

As for Comet, still standing rigid, statuesque, he heard, as has been said, the brush of steps through the straw, glimpsed a face, and trembled.  But only for a moment.  Then he steadied, head high, tail straight out.  The birds rose with a whir—­and then was repeated that horror of his youth.  Above his ears, ears that would always be tender, broke a great roar.  Either because of his excitement, or because of a sudden wave of revenge, or of a determination to make sure of the dog’s flight, Larsen had pulled both triggers at once.  The combined report shattered through the dog’s eardrums, it shivered through his nerves, he sank in agony into the straw.

Then the old impulse to flee was upon him, and he sprang to his feet, and looked about wildly.  But from somewhere in that crowd behind him came to his tingling ears a voice—­clear, ringing, deep, the voice of a woman—­a woman he knew—­pleading as his master used to plead, calling on him not to run, but to stand.