“Say—is that your gun?” demanded Ned, surprised. “I thought you had a double-barrel!”
“This is a new one,” replied Mr. Russell. “See, how it comes apart?” and he unsnapped the fore-end, and took off the barrel. “Now you try,” he bade, passing the parts to Ned.
Without hesitation Ned fitted them together. Then he handled the piece fondly.
It was a compact little single-barrel, twelve-bore, with low, rebounding hammer, pistol grip, barrel of bronzed twist, stock of polished walnut, and all the metal trimmings blued, to prevent rust, and avoid alarming game by flashes of sun; in fact, from the sight bead to the rubber butt plate it seemed a perfect little gun.
“My!” sighed Ned, boldly putting it to his shoulder, and aiming into space. “It is choke-bore, Mr. Russell?”
“Yes, siree,” assured Mr. Russell, who had been watching him with a twinkle in his eyes. “Shall I show you?” and he extended his hand.
With a final loving pat of the breech Ned regretfully turned the gun over to him, and awaited the next number on the program.
Mr. Russell inserted a shell, and said:
“Now go off from me about thirty yards, and throw up this tin can, and let’s see what I can do to it.”
Ned obeyed. He ran out, close followed by Bob, until Mr. Russell told him to stop.