“What’s that?” says I.
“A beanie,” says he.
I’d never seen one. In our part of the country we used a sling-shot made of two rubber bands and a crotch.
Catty fingered in his pocket and piffled out a round pebble and fixed it in the leather. Then he drew back the rubber over the first finger of his left hand and shot quick. The pebble knocked off the first cartridge. And then, almost quicker than I can say it, he shot five more times, and every pebble knocked off a cartridge. I never saw such shooting.
“There!” says he.
“Fine shooting,” says Dad, and Dad’s eyes were shining like they always do when he’s pleased. “I’m glad I saw that.”
Then Dad put in about half an hour showing Catty and me how to shoot a gun, and we got so we could do a little better.
“The only way to get to be a marksman,” he says, “is to stick to it and shoot and shoot. Isn’t that so, Catty?”
“Yes,” says Catty.
Then Dad went away after telling Catty to come around often. “Tell your father I’ll drop in to see him—and talk about roads and brooks and the pleasures of shiftlessness,” he said, as he went through the gate.