I climbed a small dogwood tree and looked back. They were still there and didn’t seem to know what I’d done.
Feeling just about as smart as Sherlock Holmes, I headed for the store.
I was walking along singing my lungs out when they came tearing out of the underbrush, wiggling and twisting, and tickled to death to be with me.
At first I was mad but one look at dancing Little Ann and all was forgiven.
I sat down on my bundle of fur and laughed till I hurt all over.
I could scold them a little but I could no more have whipped one of them than I could have kissed a girl.
After all a boy just doesn’t whip his dogs. Grandpa always counted my furs carefully and marked something down on a piece of paper.
I’d never seen him do this with other hunters and it got the best of my curiosity.
One day while he was writing I asked him, “Why do you do that, Grandpa?”
He looked at me over his glasses and said kind of sharp, “Never mind. I have my reasons.”
When Grandpa talked to me like that I didn’t push things any farther.
Besides, it didn’t make any difference to me if he marked on every piece of paper in the store.
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