sensitive but his chin was firm and his brown hair fell in soft waves
over a broad, full brow. People always took it for granted that John
Randolph would be as good as his word. They never reasoned about it.
They simply expected it of him.

He began to speak, and his voice fell clear and distinct through the
silence.

"And you call this sport?" There was no answer save the soft gurgle of
the river as it splashed merrily over the stones.

"You are a brute, John Randolph!" And the wind sighed a plaintive echo
among the trees.

He was silent while the words which he had read six weeks before and
which had been ringing a ceaseless refrain in his heart ever since,
obtruded themselves upon his memory.

"It is the privilege of everyone to become an exact copy of Jesus
Christ."

"Well, John Randolph, can you picture to yourself Jesus Christ shooting
a squirrel for sport?" He tossed aside the weapon he had been leaning
upon with a gesture of disgust, and, folding his arms, looked up at the
cloud-flecked sky.

"Are you there, Jesus Christ?" he asked wistfully. "Are you looking
down on this poor old world, and what do you think of it all? Men made
in God's image finding their highest enjoyment in slaughtering his
creatures. Game Preserves where they can do it in luxurious leisure; fox