“I mean—when are we going?” resumed Ned, too excited to offer other apology. “And will he help me train Bob to be a hunting dog?”
“He’ll let you know when he’s ready,” stated Mr. Miller. “And until then you must wait, and not bother either him or us, about gun or dog.”
Ned strove to walk his paths with patience, and soon was rewarded. The twentieth of September, and the first frost had just passed, and hazelnuts and hickory-nuts were ripe for gathering, when Mr. Russell sent over word for Ned to be ready that night after school, and they would go out for a little while.
“Hurrah!” shouted Ned, capering through the sitting-room. “Did he say to take a lunch, father? Will you put it up, mother? How long are we to stay? Where are we going? Can I stay as long as he does?”
“Oh, Neddie!” protested his mother, placing her hands over her ears.
“Ned, be still!” ordered his father. “I don’t think you’ll need a lunch—although, judging from your appetite, you ought to carry one with you all the time. No, Mr. Russell said that he was merely going out on the flats for an hour, to shoot off some old shells, and that you could help him, if you liked.”
“Oh!” responded Ned, a bit crestfallen. “Shall I take Bob?”
“If neither Mr. Russell nor Bob objects, I’m sure I don’t,” laughed Mr. Miller.
As soon as school was out Ned scurried to Mr. Russell’s, and found him sorting over shells, and stuffing some into his coat pockets. Ned was a little surprised to note that he was dressed just as usual, and evidently did not intend to wear his business-like hunting coat, with its stains from game and weather, and its pockets with here and there a mysterious feather; or his boots; or even his brown cap with slanting visor.