By this time the youth had his hands on the smoothbore musket and his
courage came back. He saw his uncle crashing over the hills, the
picture of dismay, while the dog rapidly gained on him.
"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.
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