“Not yet,” interrupted Mrs. Miller. “Wait a moment. Give the gun to me, Ned.”
Ned wonderingly surrendered the treasure.
“Neddie,” she declared, holding it behind her back, and trying not to laugh, “you can’t have it unless you promise not to use that dreadful ‘say’ any more!”
“I won’t, I won’t!” vowed Ned, in alarm.
“Won’t what?” insisted his mother.
“Won’t say ‘say’ any more,” cried Ned.
“Or as much,” restricted his mother, firmly.
“I won’t say it at all,” promised Ned.
With a kiss his mother restored the gun to his eager grasp.
The only personage within Ned’s circle of relatives and friends who did not rejoice with him in his new gun was Bob. Poor Bob! The weapon was an eye-sore to him. When his master brought it out Bob gazed at him reproachfully, and slunk off, dejected, woebegone. No coaxing could lift his spirits, or induce him to come outside the yard, when the gun was in sight.