During the next week Ned went out several times with Mr. Russell, and began to feel like quite a veteran. He not only could hit stationary cans, but he learned to hit things tossed into the air. To tell the truth, he was a fine pupil.
“Ned, Mr. Russell thinks that the public won’t suffer if we go ahead now and trust you alone with a gun,” observed Mr. Miller, one evening, at the supper table. “He says you’re learning well, and that all you need do is remember.”
“I can hit a little piece of bark thrown up forty yards away,” asserted Ned, confidently.
“Very good,” responded his father, pushing back from the table. “But I didn’t get Mr. Russell to teach you that, so much as to teach you not to hit some objects more important!”
He went into the bedroom, and came back, bearing a gun case.
“How do you like it?” he said, giving it to Ned.
With feverish fingers Ned unbuckled the straps. The case had looked familiar; the gun was still more familiar.
“Say——” he burst out. “Is it mine? Did Mr. Russell give it to me? Did you buy it of him? It’s the very same gun!”
“So it is,” replied his father, pleased to see him so pleased. “I had Mr. Russell pick it out for me the day after you and your mother and I talked together; so you’ve been using it all this time, and now you’re acquainted with it. It’s yours.”