bus, the cat, swung his black paws down from the mantel shelf and surveyed them with scornful eyes. When it came to killing, he needed no gun!
Winslow was among the hunters. His bags of dead birds were bigger than the others. He took them up to Round Hill to be cooked. He talked about them at the table. He seemed to think of nothing else, not even his wedding day, which was three weeks away. Sally made up a verse to fit the case and recited it at dinner:
Winslow, glittering on the other side of the table, said, "I shall never forget—"
Bobby Gresham, who was dining with them, remarked: "Sally's rather a darling duck herself. Good enough to eat."
Winslow shot him a baleful glance. He was irritated, too, by Sally's mockery. He was thin-skinned, and there were times when her words stung him like the barb of a little bee. He wondered if, as his wife, she would irritate him. Yet it was too late to think of that. In three weeks she would marry him, and Gresham might save his flatteries. As for hunting, the season was on, and he intended to get all he could out
