"You are quite right." At this point Slipper created a diversion.
"Hello!" said Duff.

"Say! Look at him!" He pointed to the dog.

"Ain't he a picture!" A hundred yards away stood Slipper, rigid, every muscle, every hair taut, one foot arrested in air.
"I'll just get those," said Duff, slipping out of the buckboard and drawing the gun from beneath the seat.

"Steady, old boy, steady! Hold the lines, Sandy." He moved quickly toward the dog who, quivering with that mysterious instinct found in the hunting dog, still held the point with taut muscles, nose and tail in line.
"Hello!" Barry called out.

"It isn't the season yet for chicken.