"This isn't heavy," said Charley. "I like it mighty well. Try it, Toby, and see what you think of it."
"She is fine and light," said Toby. "I likes un better'n the forty-four."
"So do I, ever so much," said Charley taking it back from Toby, and handling it caressingly.
"You knows a good gun when you sees un, lad," flattered Skipper Blink. "I were thinkin' when you asks to see un that you'd be pickin' that un, and I were sayin' to myself, 'There's a lad now what knows a gun, and he'll be wantin' the thirty.' But 'tis the most costive of all of un."
"I'll take it anyhow," agreed Charley, fondling the arm, quite sure that his happiness depended upon owning it, and recognizing it as the undoubted aristocrat of the three.
"That's right, lad," beamed the Skipper. "When the bullet from that un hits a deer, you'll be gettin' the deer, whatever. Let me get a bit o' rag and wipe the grease off of she. And we'll take the ramrod and wipe out the barrel. 'Tis clogged full o' grease, and if you shoots she without cleanin' she out 'tis like to split she."
When Skipper Cy had cleaned the gun to his satisfaction he handed it to Charley, with the suggestion:
"You'll be needin' some ca'tridges—a hundred, whatever."
"I'll take a hundred and fifty," said Charley proudly.
"They comes twenty in a box," advised the Skipper. "If you takes seven boxes 'twill do you. 'Tis all I has."