“Oh, come back,” growled his father.

“Let the boys have a few moments,” I said.  “They gave up this morning about as well as you could expect of boys.  Would Junior have gone and taken a strapping if Merton hadn’t returned?”

“Yes, indeed he would, and he knows my strappin’s are no make-believe.  That boy has no sly, mean tricks to speak of, but he’s as tough and obstinate as a mule sometimes, especially about shooting and fishing.  See him now a-p’intin’ for that rabbit, like a hound.”

True enough, the boy was showing good woodcraft.  Restraining Merton, he cautiously approached the tracks, which by reason of the lightness and depth of the snow were not very distinct.

“He can’t be far away,” said Junior, excitedly.  “Don’t go too fast till I see which way he was a-p’intin’.  We don’t want to follow the tracks back, but for’ard.  See, he came out of that old wall there, he went to these bushes and nibbled some twigs, and here he goes—­ here he went—­here—­here—­yes, he went into the wall again just here.  Now, Merton, watch this hole while I jump over the other side of the fence and see if he comes out again.  If he makes a start, grab him.”

John Jones and I were now almost as excited as the boys, and Mr. Rollins, the neighbor who was following us, was standing up in his sleigh to see the sport.  It came quickly.  As if by some instinct the rabbit believed Junior to be the more dangerous, and made a break from the wall almost at Merton’s feet, with such swiftness and power as to dash by him like a shot.  The first force of its bound over, it was caught by nature’s trap—­snow too deep and soft to admit of rapid running.

John Jones soon proved that Junior came honestly by his passion for hunting.  In a moment he was floundering through the bushes with his son and Merton.  In such pursuit of game my boy had the advantage, for he was as agile as a cat.  But a moment or two elapsed before he caught up with the rabbit, and threw himself upon it, then rose, white as a snow-man, shouting triumphantly and holding the little creature aloft by its ears.

“Never rate Junior for hunting again,” I said, laughingly, to Mr. Jones.  “He’s a chip of the old block.”

“I rather guess he is,” my neighbor acknowledged, with a grin.  “I own up I used to be pretty hot on such larkin’.  We all keep forgettin’ we was boys once.”

As we rode on, Merton was a picture of exultation, and Junior was on the sharp lookout again.  His father turned on him and said:  “Now look a’ here, enough’s as good as a feast.  I’ll blindfold you if you don’t let the tracks alone.  Mrs. Durham wants her things, so she can begin to live.  Get up there;” and a crack of the whip ended all further hopes on the part of the boys.  But they felt well repaid for coming, and Merton assured Junior that he deserved half the credit, for only he knew how to manage the hunt.

CHAPTER XV