David had taken no pains to approach his father’s camp without being discovered.  He knew he was in the right, and he intended to be open and above board in everything he did.  He expected to meet his father face to face, and he was ready to use every argument he could think of to induce him to surrender the pointer, that is, if the animal should be found in his possession.  If arguments and entreaties failed, he was prepared to use other means, although he knew that by so doing he would bring certain punishment upon himself.  Very fortunately, however, he chanced to reach the camp during his father’s absence, and all he had to do was to liberate the pointer and go home with him.

“I’m glad it happened just as it did,” thought David, drawing a long breath of relief; “I don’t want to get into trouble with father, for I have seen him angry too many times.  If he should catch me here now I believe he’d half kill me.”

“Halloo, Dannie!  What brung you up here so ‘arly, an’ whar be you goin’ with the dog?”

David’s heart seemed to stop beating, and his old single-barrel grew so heavy that he could scarcely sustain its weight.  His first impulse was to take to his heels, but the unexpected sound of the familiar voice seemed to have deprived him of all power of motion.  He did manage, however, to turn his head and look in the direction from which the voice sounded, and saw his father standing a little way off, with his rifle on his shoulder and a squirrel in his hand.

“Dave!” exclaimed the latter, so surprised that he could scarcely speak.

“Yes, it’s Dave,” replied the boy, who saw that the battle for which he had prepared himself was likely to come off after all.

“What business you got up here, an’ how come you by that pinter pup?” demanded Godfrey.

“My business up here was to get the dog.  I found him in your camp, and I cut him loose because I have a better right to him than you have.”

“Wal, we’ll see ’bout that thar,” returned Godfrey, throwing down his squirrel and leaning his rifle against the nearest tree.  David’s face grew pale, for he knew what was coming now.  His father’s next move would be to reach for a hickory.

“Who told you I was up here?” demanded Godfrey, and David’s uneasiness increased when he saw that his father was running his eyes over the bushes nearest him.  He was picking out a good stout switch.

“No one told me,” answered David.

“Then how did you know whar I was?”

“I was up here with Don and Bert on the day you swam the bayou, and I saw you just after you had climbed the bank and were dodging into the bushes.”

“Don’t you think you was a very grateful an’ dutiful’ son to hunt your poor ole pap outen a good hidin’-place an’ make him take to the water like a hounded deer, in this cold weather too, an’ my rheumatiz so bad?” asked Godfrey, angrily.  “Who told you the pinter was here?”