But is it not perfectly legitimate and gentlemanly to shoot such a woodchuck to save one’s peaches?  Certainly.  So I got the gun and waited—­and waited—­and waited.  Did you ever wait with a gun until a woodchuck came out of his hole?  I never did.  A woodchuck has just sense enough to go into his hole—­and stay in.

There were too many woodchucks about and my days were too precious for me to spend any considerable part of my summer watching with a gun for this one.  Besides, I have been known to fire and miss a woodchuck, anyway.

So I gave up the gun.  It was while thinking what I could do next that I came down the row of young peach-trees and spied the woodchuck out in the orchard, fifty yards away from his hole.  He spied me at the same instant, and rose upon his haunches.

At last we were face to face.  The time had come.  It would be a fight to the finish; and a fair fight, too, for all that I had about me in the way of weapons was a pair of heavy, knee-high hunting-boots, that I had put on against the dew of the early morning.  All my thought and energy, all my hope, centered immediately in those boots.

The woodchuck kept his thoughts in his head.  Into his heels he put what speed he had; and little as that was, it counted, pieced out with the head-work.

Back in my college days I ran a two-mile race—­the greatest race of the day, the judges said—­and just at the tape lost two gold medals and the glory of a new intercollegiate record because I didn’t use my head.  Two of us out of twenty finished, and we finished together, the other fellow twisting and falling forward, breaking the string with his side, while I, pace for pace with him—­didn’t think.

For a moment the woodchuck and I stood motionless, he studying the situation.  I was at the very mouth of his burrow.  It was coming to sure death for him to attempt to get in.  Yet it was sure death if he did not get in, for I should run him down.

Had you been that woodchuck, gentle reader, I wonder if you would have taken account of the thick-strewn stones behind you, the dense tangle of dewberry-vines off on your left, the heavy boots of your enemy and his unthinking rage?

I was vastly mistaken in that woodchuck.  A blanker, flabbier face never looked into mine.  Only the sudden appearance of death could have brought the trace of intelligence across it that I caught as the creature dropped on all fours and began to wabble straight away from me over the area of rough, loose stones.

With a jump and a yell I was after him, making five yards to his one.  He tumbled along the best he could, and, to my great surprise, directly away from his hole.  It was steep downhill.  I should land upon him in half a dozen bounds more.

On we went, reckless of the uneven ground, momentum increasing with every jump, until, accurately calculating his speed and the changing distance between us, I rose with a mighty leap, sailed into the air and came down—­just an inch too far ahead—­on a round stone, turned my ankle, and went sprawling over the woodchuck in a heap.