“Hush up, Georgie K.,” said Doctor Gordon.  The other man turned and looked at him keenly, but the doctor’s imperturbable, smiling face was on the sport.  Georgie K.’s great pink face grew grave.  Every time Albert Dodd fired the pigeons dropped in pieces, every time Jim Goodman fired they hopped as if they were alive.  Jim Goodman swore audibly.  He looked to his cartridges.  The whole field was in an uproar of mirth.  The gunshots were hardly audible for the yells and wild halloos of merriment.  The match at last was finished.  Jim Goodman’s last pigeon hopped, and he was upon it in a rage.  He took it up and examined it.  It was riddled with shot.  He felt it, weighed it.  Then his face grew fairly black.  From being only mean, he looked murderous.  He was losing money, and money was the closest thing to his soul.  He looked around at the yelling throng, one man at bay, and he achieved a certain dignity, even in the midst of absurdity.

“This darned pigeon is wood,” said he.  “They are all wood, all I have shot.  This is a put-up job!  It ain’t fair.”  He turned to the young fellow who had taken the pigeons, and who acted as referee.

“See here, John,” he said, “you ain’t going to see me done this way, be you?  You know it ain’t a fair deal.  Albert Dodd’s shot clay pigeons, and I’ve shot wood.  It ain’t fair.”

“No, it ain’t fair,” admitted the young fellow reluctantly, with a side glance at Doctor Gordon.  Gordon made a movement, but Georgie K. was ahead of him.  James saw a roll of bills pass from his hands to Jim Goodman’s.  Gordon came up to Georgie K.

“See here!” he said.

“Well,” replied Georgie K., without turning his head.

“Georgie K.”

“I can’t stop.  Excuse me, Doc.”  Georgie K. jumped into a light wagon on that side of the field, and was gone with a swift bounce over the hollow which separated it from the road.  Doctor Gordon hurried back to his own buggy, with James following, got in and took the road after Georgie K.  “He mustn’t pay that money,” said Gordon.  James said nothing.

“I never thought of such a thing as that,” said Doctor Gordon, driving furiously, but they did not catch up with Georgie K. until they reached the Evarts House, and he was out of his wagon.

Doctor Gordon approached him, pocketbook in hand.  “See here, Georgie K.,” he said, “I owe you a hundred.”

“Owe me nothing,” said Georgie K. It had seemed impossible for his great pink face to look angry and contemptuous, but it did.  “I don’t set up for much,” said he, “but I must say I like a square deal.”

“Good Lord! so do I,” said Gordon.  “Here, take this money.  I had Aaron make those darned wooden pigeons.  Jim Goodman has skinned enough young chaps here to deserve the taste of a skin himself.”

“He ain’t skinned you.”

“Hasn’t he?  He owes me for two wives’ last sicknesses, to say nothing of himself and children, and he’s living with his third, and I shall have to doctor her for nothing or let her die.  But that wasn’t what I did it for.”