“‘We-all gets back to my old gent’s an’ I proceeds to hitch up a Dobbin hoss we has to a side-bar buggy.  It’s dark by now, an’ we don’t go to the house nor indulge in any ranikaboo uproar about it, as I figgers it’s better not to notify the folks.  Not that they’d be out to put the kybosh on this enterprize; but they’re powerful fond of talk my folks is, an’ their long suit is never wantin’ you to do whatever you’re out to execoote.  Wherefore, as I ain’t got no time for a j’int debate with my fam’ly over technicalities I puts Jule into the side-bar where it’s standin’ in the dark onder a shed; an’ then, hookin’ up old Dobbin a heap surreptitious, I gathers the reins an’ we goes softly p’intin’ forth for Hickman’s.

“‘As we-all is sailin’ thoughtlessly along the trail, Dobbin ups an’ bolts.  Sech flights is onpreeceedented in the case of Dobbin—­who’s that sedate he’s jest alive—­an’ I’m shore amazed; but I yanks him up an’ starts anew.  It’s twenty rods when Dobbin bolts ag’in.  This time I hears a flutter, an’ reaches ’round Jule some to see if her petticoats is whippin’ the wheel.  They ain’t; but Jule—­who esteems said gesture in the nacher of a caress—­seemin’ to favour the idee, I lets my arm stay ‘round.  A moment later an’ this yere villain Dobbin bolts the third time, an’ as I’ve sort o’ got my one arm tangled up with Jule, he lams into a oak tree.

“’It’s then, when we’re plumb to a halt, I does hear a flutter.  At that I gets down to investigate.  Gents, you-all may onderstand my horror when I finds ‘leven of my shawl-neck game chickens roostin’ on that side-bar’s reach!  They’re thar when we pulls out.  They’ve retired from the world an’ its cares for the night an’, in our ignorance of them chicken’s domestic arrangements, we blindly takes ’em with us.  Now an’ then, as we goes rackin’ along, one of ’em gets jolted off.  Then he’d hang by his chin an’ beat his wings; an’ it’s these frenzied efforts he makes to stay with the game that evolves them alarmin’ flutterin’s.

“‘Jule—­who don’t own chickens an’ who ain’t no patron of cockfights neither—­is for settin’ the shawl-necks on the fence an’ pickin’ ’em up as we trails back from the Gander-Pullin’.

“‘"As long as it’s dark,” says Jule, “they’ll stay planted; an’ we rounds ’em up on our return.”

“‘But I ain’t that optimistic.  I knows these chickens an’ they ain’t so somnolent as all that.  Besides it’s a cinch that a mink or a fox comes squanderin’ ‘round an’ takes ’em in like gooseberries.  ’Leven shawl-necks!  Why, it would be a pick-up for a fox!

“’"You’re a fine Injun to take a girl to a dance!” says Jule at last, an’ she’s full of scorn.

“’"Injun or no Injun,” I retorts a heap sullen, “thar ain’t no Gander-Pullin’ goin’ to jestify me in abandonin’ my ’leven shawl-necks an’ me with a main to fight next month over on the Little Bloo!”

“‘At that I corrals the chickens an’ imprisons ’em in the r’ar of the side-bar an’ goes a-weavin’ back for camp, an’ I picks up three more shawl-necks where they sets battin’ their he’pless eyes in the road.