Three times would that remarkable old dog look round thus, and if the gun had not then arrived he would to a certainty run in and flush the birds.

This was a rule that he never broke, for his patience had a fixed limit.

On this occasion, however, John arrived before it was reached, and, jumping off his pony, cocked his gun and marched slowly up, full of happy expectation.

On drew the dog, his eye cold and fixed, saliva dropping from his mouth, and his head, on which was frozen an extraordinary expression of instinctive ferocity, outstretched to its utmost limit.
Pontac was under the mimosa thorn now and up to his belly in the warm red grass.

Where could the birds be?
_Whirr!_ and a great feathered shell seemed to have burst at his very feet.