“Oh, he had a bad time with them; that’s all;” said Mrs. Lawrence, coming to the rescue.
But Will, who was plainly dissatisfied with his mother’s version of the affair, explained, with an effort that proved him to be a hero, “I had some fire-crackers, and they set the chip yard on fire, and nearly burnt up a cow in the cow-house!”
Having thus eased his conscience, he relapsed into silence. But it was evident that his nerves were quite unstrung; the visitor was therefore not taken wholly unawares when Will, in passing him the “preserves,” spilt them on his pants.
With a sigh of resignation the unfortunate took the mishap as a joke, and asked, as they rose from the table, if Will would bring out some of his toys.
“Get out the gun you made yourself,” Mr. Lawrence suggested.
The boy left the room but soon came in with a rude weapon—which boys would call a squirt-gun, but which Mr. and Mrs. Lawrence, from ignorance or flattery, called a gun. But time is precious to some people; perhaps they called it a gun to save breath.
The errant newspaper man took up the squirt-gun, to examine it at his convenience, but lo! another mishap! The infernal machine, or whatever one may call it, had discharged a black and muddy fluid over his spotless shirt front.
Another involuntary “Oh!” broke from poor Will’s lips. “It must be the poison we had for the red currant bugs!” he groaned. “I thought I had squirted every drop out of the gun, but—”
“This is an extraordinary little gun, I’ve no doubt,” said the unhappy man, in a pet, “but I don’t wish to experiment with it at present. I should prefer to see some harmless toy, such as a wooden top or a horse-hair watch-chain. It is always dangerous for me to meddle with guns, anyway.”