"You've
plugged him right in the eyes three times and once in the heart. Had he
been a real bear, he'd be as dead as a salt mackerel now."
"Provided he had consented to stand still," answered Dave. "Shooting at
a stationary object is one thing, and at a moving, living creature quite
another."
"I have it!" cried Phil. "Let us get a rope and throw it over one of the
tree limbs. Then we can tie the door to it and swing it to and fro.
We'll try to hit the bear while he's swinging."
"That's the talk!" returned Dave, enthusiastically. "I'll get the rope!"
And he ran off to the barn for it. Little did he dream of what trouble
that swinging target was to make for himself and his chums.
Many of my old readers already know Dave Porter, but for the benefit of
others a brief outline of his past history will not be out of place.
When he was a wee boy he had been found one day wandering along the
railroad tracks outside of the village of Crumville. Nobody knew who he
was or where he came from, and consequently he was put in the local
poorhouse, there to remain until he was nine years old. Then a
broken-down college professor named Caspar Potts, who was doing farming
for his health, took the lad to live with him.
Caspar Potts gave Dave the rudiments of a good education.
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