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.
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