After the coon was killed, I walked over. Papa was trying to get the coon’s paw from the trap. He couldn’t do it.
Taking a pair of pliers from his pocket, he said, “It’s a good thing I had these along or we would have had to cut his foot off.”
After Papa had pulled the nails, he lifted the coon’s paw from the hole.
There, clamped firmly in it, was the bright piece of tin.
In a low voice Papa said, “Well, I’ll be darned. All he had to do was open it up
and he was free, but he wouldn’t do it. Your grandfather was right.”
A sorrowful look came over Papa’s face as he ran his fingers through the soft, yellow hair.
“Billy,” he said, “I want you to take a hammer and pull the nails from every one of those traps. It’s summertime now and their fur isn’t any good.
Besides, I don’t think this is very sportsmanlike. The coon doesn’t have a chance.
It’s all right this time. You needed this one, but from now on I want you to catch them with your dogs. That way they have a fifty-fifty chance.”
“I will, Papa,” I said. “That’s what I intended to do.”
While we were skinning the coon, Papa asked me when I was going to start training my dogs.
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