“Pretty good stove, isn’t it,” he commented, when he had finished.
“You see that kind of a fire does several things that you want it to, and doesn’t do several others that you don’t want. It makes all the heat go right up against the bottom of the pans where you need it most, and it only takes a little wood to get a lot of heat. What is more, the sides of the logs keep the heat from burning your face and your hands when you have to stir things, as a big camp-fire would. You can always tell a woodsman by the kind of fire he builds.”
Presently the coffee boiled over and Martin set it off, and by that time the ham and the bread were ready. And while they were eating their breakfast he set a pail of water on the fire to heat. “That’s to wash the dishes in,” he said. “A real woodsman washes his dishes as soon as he finishes each meal—does it a good deal more religiously than he washes his face or his hands, I fear.”
When breakfast was finished, and the last dish cleaned, Martin said: “Now you’ll have an hour’s practice at target-shooting. Take your gun and come along.”
He led the way to the pile of boxes, and hunted out three or four solid looking cases. These were filled with paper boxes containing cartridges—enough to supply an army, Larry thought. Tearing some of these open, Martin instructed the boy to fill the right hand pocket of his jacket with the little twenty-twos. “And always remember that they are in that pocket and nowhere else,” he instructed.
Next he opened a bundle and took out a belt on which there were a row of little leather pockets with snap fasteners. He filled these pockets with the larger calibre cartridges, six to each pocket, and instructed Larry to buckle it on over his coat. Then he led the way to a level piece of ground just above the camp, and having paced off fifty yards he fastened the round top of a large tin can against a tree and stepped back to the firing line.
“I’ll try one shot first to see if the sights are true,” he said, as he slipped a cartridge into each barrel. Then raising the gun to his shoulder he glanced through the sights and fired. “Go and see where that hit,” he told the boy.
Larry, running to the target, found the little hole of the .22 bullet almost in the center of the tin, and shouted his discovery exultantly. Martin had fired so quickly after bringing the gun to his shoulder that the boy could scarcely believe his eyes, although the result of the shot did not seem to surprise the old hunter.
“Don’t try the .38 yet,” he instructed, handing Larry the gun. “Fire twenty shots with the .22, and go and see where each shot strikes as soon as you fire and have loaded. And don’t forget to bring the gun to half-cock, and to load before you leave your tracks. That is one of the main things to remember. After a little practice you will do it instinctively, so that you will always have a loaded gun in your hands. It may save your life sometime when you run up to a buck that you have knocked over and only stunned.”
The boy took the gun and began his lesson, the hunter leaving him without waiting to see how he went about it. A few minutes later, when Larry had finished the twenty rounds, he found the old man going through the dismantled yacht.