“We can’t start to-morrow if it storms like this,” Larry suggested presently.
“Well, we can’t start to-morrow anyhow,” the old trapper answered. “And we surely can’t start until there is more snow. How are we going to haul a pair of toboggans over the snow if there is no snow to be hauled over, I’d like to know? But there is no danger about the lack of snow. There’ll be plenty of it by the time we are ready to start.”
“And when will that be?” the boy asked.
“In about ten days, I think,” Martin answered, “——that is, if you have learned to shoot a rifle, harness the dogs, pitch a camp, set snares, walk on snow-shoes, and carry a pretty good-sized pack on your back,” he added, looking at Larry out of the corner of his eyes. “Did you ever shoot a rifle?”
“Sure I have,” the boy answered proudly; “and I hit the mark, too—sometimes.”
“I suppose you shot a Flobert twenty-two, at a mark ten feet away,” Martin commented with a little smile. “Well, all that helps. But on this trip you are not going to hit the mark sometimes: it must be every time. And the ‘mark’ will be something for the camp kettle to keep the breath of life in us. I’ve been turning over in my mind to-day the question of what kind of a gun you are going to tote on this trip. We’ve got all kinds to select from up there under the canvas, from elephant killers to squirrel poppers, for Mr. Ware did love every kind of shooting iron. I’ve picked out yours, and to-morrow you will begin learning to use it—learning to shoot quick and straight—straight, every time. For we won’t have one bullet to waste after we leave here.”
Larry fairly hugged himself. Think of having a rifle of his very own, a real rifle that would kill things, with the probability of having plenty of chances for using it! One of his fondest dreams was coming true. The old hunter read his happiness in his face, and without a word rose and left the tent. When he returned he carried in his hand a little weapon which, in its leather case, seemed like a toy about two feet long. Handing this to Larry he said, simply: “Here’s your gun.”
The boy’s countenance fell. To be raised to the height of bliss and expectation, and then be handed a pop-gun, was a cruel joke. Without removing the gun from its case he tossed it contemptuously into the blankets behind him.
“Mr. Ware killed a moose with it last winter,” the old hunter commented, suspecting the cause of the boy’s disappointment. “And it shoots as big a ball, and shoots just as hard as the gun I am going to carry,” he added. “You’d better get acquainted with it.”
There was no doubting the old man’s sincerity now, and Larry picked up the gun and examined it.