loaded in time. Leaning his rifle far over, so as to make an inclined plane, he rapidly brought it up to the perpendicular as the black, sand-like particles streamed down the barrel.

Next he whipped out a bullet and the little square piece of greased cloth, shoving both into the muzzle of the weapon. Still the panther peered over the log at his lifeless mate.

As the loading of the weapon progressed Jack could hardly control his excitement. He snatched out the ramrod with such violence that it fell from his hand. Like a flash he stooped, caught it up, and began shoving the bullet down the tight-fitting bore of his gun.

He saw the panther move. With a fierce jamb the bullet was stopped by the thimbleful of powder nestling in the bottom of the barrel. Jack made sure the ball was pressed home when he snatched out the ramrod and let it fall to the ground: no time now to put it back in its place.

Only one more step--to pour the priming into the pan of his weapon. Jack's hands trembled as he drew back the iron jaw which gripped the flint, and dashed some powder into the cavity prepared for it. He was overrunning with hope.

The panther, as if satisfied with the last sight of his mate drifting down stream, turned his head and looked at the sturdy boy at the other end of the log. He slowly lashed his tail, and growled savagely, his looks and manners seeming to say--

"So you're the young gentleman who has just shot my mate! Such being the case, it is my duty to put it out of your power ever to do anything of the kind again. I am now going to eat you!"

All four feet were on the bridge, and the frightful beast took a couple of steps towards his victim. Then a resounding screech broke the stillness of the night, and the animal, leaping straight up in air, rolled back into the water, hardly making another struggle, for the second bullet of Jack Gedney had entered his neck and passed straight through his heart.

Stooping to the ground, the youth picked up his ramrod, and, without moving from the spot, re-charged his weapon. He did so with as much coolness as when firing a match with Mr. Burton and his boys.

"I don't think there are any more painters near," was his thought; "but I am ready for them if they will come one at a time, and far enough apart to give me a chance to load up."

And resting his gun on his shoulder, he took to the path, and walked steadily homeward.

His father and mother had just sat down to the supper table as he entered. The table was of the simplest make, and was without any cloth covering. Several pine boards rested on four legs--one at each corner--but it was as clean as it could be, and the pewter tea-pot and few dishes shone brightly enough to serve for mirrors. The bread was of dark colour, but sweet and light, and the bacon might not suit delicate palates, but those who ate of it did so with a relish as great as though it were roast turkey.

Mr. Gedney took turns with his wife and boy in asking a blessing upon each meal of which they partook. He nodded to Jack to signify that it was his turn, and the boy, closing his eyes, and reverently bending his head, begged in a few simple words the blessing of God upon the bounty which He had given them.

"Well," said the father in his cheery voice, as the meal began, "have you and the boys left any game in the woods for other folk?"

"Will and George had some work to do to-day, and their father could not spare them. But they promised to go with me on a hunt to-morrow."

"How have you spent the day?" asked the mother.

"I helped the boys until near night, and then started for home."

"Then you haven't had much chance to try your gun?" was the inquiring remark of the father.

"Not as much as I hoped, but we had a shooting match after dinner."

"A shooting match? How did you succeed?"

"Mr. Burton beat me."

"He is one of the finest shots in the West; he has actually beaten me once or twice! How about the boys?"

"They have never beaten me," was the smiling answer of Jack.

"Nor must they or any one else beat you," added Mr. Gedney, with a warning shake of his head. "But haven't you brought down any game?"

"Well, I shot a couple of painters on my way home," replied Jack, in the most indifferent manner, as he buried his big sound teeth into a slice of bread and butter.

"Did you kill them both?" asked the mother between her sips of tea.

"Both are so dead that they couldn't be any deader," was the reply of Jack.

"After supper you can tell us about it," said the father, showing no more interest than if they were talking about the "barking" of a couple of squirrels.

Now, brave and cool as was Jack Gedney, he felt some pride in his exploit, for it is not often that one is able to kill two such fierce animals as the American panther without receiving a scratch himself. But he was not the boy to force his story upon his friends, and so he finished his meal, and finally sat down by the broad, cheerful fireplace.

Opposite to him was his father, smoking his pipe, and his mother, having cleared away the supper things, took up her knitting for the evening. The only light came from the blazing logs on the hearth. This was enough to fill the large room, and render a candle or lamp unnecessary. The plain calico curtains were not drawn across the narrow windows, and the latch-string was left hanging outside, so that any one who chose could enter without knocking.

Jack waited until asked by his father to tell how it was he came to kill two "painters." Then he gave the story as it has been given to you.

The mother did not stop her knitting during the narration, nor did the father cease to smoke in his deliberate way, nor ask any question until it was finished. Then he made some natural inquiries, and remarked that he did not see how Jack could have done better than he did.

After this the conversation took a general turn, and lasted perhaps a couple of hours. Finally, the latch-string was drawn in, a chapter read from the Bible, prayer offered up by the father, after which the little family went to bed.