“Hey dar! hey dar!” shouted Rube, breaking into a run and trying to draw attention to himself.  But the brute only sped the faster.  He was near the middle of the procession, but gaining on the fugitive, who had thrown aside his hoe, flung his hat to the ground, and was making better progress than when he used to run races with the boys in his younger days.

The fence was near and he strained every nerve.  It looked as if man and dog would reach it at the same moment, but the former put forth an extra spurt and arrived a pace or two ahead, with the cur at his heels.

Rube, however, was not far to the rear.  Seeing the crisis had come, he stopped short, brought the musket to his shoulder, and, taking the best aim he could, let fly with the whole load that clogged several inches of the barrel.

He did not observe at the moment of pressing the trigger that his uncle and the dog were in line, but it could have made no difference, since the shot had to be made at that instant or not at all.

Just as the weapon was fired, Uncle Pete with a great bound cleared the fence, landing on his hands and knees; and, rolling over on his back, kicked the air with such vigor that his shoes flew off, one after the other, as if keeping time with his frenzied outcries.

The yellow cur was scared, as a shark is sometimes driven off by the loud splashing of a swimmer, and, though he leaped the fence, he wheeled again, and, without harming the man, ran down the highway toward the Woodvale school.

For a moment after firing, Rube Johnson believed he was killed.  The flint shot a spark among the powder grains, there was a flash, a hiss, and then, as the fire worked its way to the charge inside, the explosion came and he toppled over, half stunned, with the gun flying a dozen feet away.

But his fear for his relative brought him to his feet, and he hurried to the old gentleman, who was climbing uncertainly to an upright posture.

“What’s de matter?” asked Rube; “you ain’t bit.”

“I know dat; I warn’t yellin’ on dat ’count.”

“What fur den?”

“You black rascal, you shot me instid ob de yaller dog.”

“Lemme see,” said Rube, turning his uncle round and scanning him from head to foot.

“I done pepper you purty well, uncle, but dare ain’t any ob de slugs dat hit yer—­only de fine bird shot.”

“How many ob dem?” was the rueful question.

“I don’t tink dar’s more dan five or six hundred; Aunt Jemimer can gib her spar time de next six weeks pickin’ ’em out; she’ll enj’y it, but dat shot ob mine scared off de mad dog, and yer oughter be tankful to me, uncle, all yer life.”

It was recess at the Woodvale school, and the forty-odd boys and girls were having a merry time on the playgrounds, which included the broad highway.  Within the building, Mr. Hobbs, the young teacher was busy “setting copies,” his only companion just then being Tod Clymer, a pale-faced cripple, who, unable to take part in the sports of the other boys, preferred to stay within doors and con his lessons, in which he was always far in advance of the rest.