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"If, on investigation, it proves that you are not spies, you will be allowed to go on your way. If there's any doubt about it, however, you will be sent to Richmond." Macgreggor, with a bound, leaped in front of the Confederate, and, pulling out a revolver, pointed it at Lightfoot's head.
The best thing for you to do, my friend, is to get into your boat and row back where you came from. Are those your hounds barking over there?" "No," replied the hunter promptly. "I know the law just as well as you do, and it is against the law to hunt Deer with dogs. I don't even know who owns those two hounds over there." "That may be true," replied Lightfoot's friend. "I don't doubt it is true.
It has a white edge, but mostly it is the color of his coat." Now while Lightfoot had been standing there his tail had hung down, and it was as Johnny Chuck had said. But at Johnny's remark up flew Lightfoot's tail, showing only the under side. It was like a pointed white flag. With it held aloft that way, no one behind Lightfoot would suspect that his whole tail was not white.
Something tore a strip of bark from the trunk of a tree just above Lightfoot's back. It was a bullet and it had just missed Lightfoot. It added to his terror and this in turn added to his speed. So Lightfoot ran and ran, and behind him the voices of the hounds continued to ring through the Green Forest. Poor Lightfoot! It seemed to him that there were no such things as justice and fair play.
Because of this he is often called Blacktailed Deer, but this is wrong because that name belongs to his cousin, the true Blacktail. "Forkhorn's antlers are his glory. They are even finer than Lightfoot's. The prongs, or tines, are in pairs like the letter Y instead of in a row as are those of Lightfoot, and usually there are two pairs on each antler.
I'll just cut across to my old trail and unless I am greatly mistaken, I'll find his tracks there." So, swiftly but silently, the hunter cut across to his old trail, and in a few moments he found just what he expected, one of Lightfoot's footprints. Once more he grinned. "Well, old fellow, I've out-guessed you this time," said he to himself.
Yes, Sir, Sammy Jay was worrying about Lightfoot the Deer. For two days he had been unable to find Lightfoot or any trace of Lightfoot. But he did find plenty of hunters with terrible guns. It seemed to him that they were everywhere in the Green Forest. Sammy began to suspect that one of them must have succeeded in killing Lightfoot the Deer. Sammy knew all of Lightfoot's hiding-places.
Lightfoot knew that he had nothing to fear in that direction so long as the Merry Little Breezes brought him none of the dreaded man-scent, and he knew that he could trust the Merry Little Breezes to bring him that scent if there should be a man anywhere in front of him. You know the Merry Little Breezes are Lightfoot's best friends.
'Among all my multifarious occupations here, I have not much time for reading; I am never alone night or day. I sleep on a table, with some twelve or more fellows around me; and all day long people are about me, in and out of school hours. But I have read, for the third time I think, Lightfoot's "Galatians" and I am looking forward to receiving his book on the Ephesians.
Lightfoot's manifesto states, "has been repaired and decorated in a style of the greatest comfort. Gentlemen hunting with the Dumplingbeare hounds will find excellent stabling and loose-boxes for horses at the Clavering Arms.
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