As soon as he had disposed of his goose to Mrs. Norris (who snapped it up eagerly, and paid him well, its opportune arrival saving her the great mortification of giving her friends a fish dinner), he sought out old Adam Standish, the acknowledged sportsman of the village.
As usual, he found the heavily bearded, long-haired, keen-eyed old man sitting on a bench before his cabin, and at the minute gazing down the long barrel of a shot-gun which he had just been cleaning. "Hello, uncle!" was Morton's greeting.
Every man is an "uncle" in Killamet, unless he is a "cap'n," or a "squire."
"Hello!" said Adam, lowering his gun. "Oh! it's you, sonny? Come up and have a seat," sweeping together the empty gun-shells, bits of rag and wadding, small tools, etc., at his side. "How's your folks?"
"All right," remembering with a sudden sense of pleasure the money for baby's milk safe in his pocket. "Been gunning lately?"
"Waal, some, a brace or two o' brants; jest hand me them pincers, Mort.
Why? Want to buy?"
"No; I want to shoot."
"Hey? You! He, he!"
"I killed one this morning, Uncle Adam."
"Whar'd ye get yer gun?"