And he lay down, and drew the bed-covers around his ears.
He had earnestly longed to find that tree, and now, alas! it was not a deadly tree at all. One of life’s charms had vanished.
The next morning, after breakfast, Mr. Berkeley noticed Old Bruden standing in a corner of the hall, where Mr. Muller had placed it when he brought it home, the afternoon before. Taking up the gun, Mr. Berkeley raised the hammers, and then remarked,—
“Have you forgotten, Phil, that it is against orders to leave a loaded gun about the house in this way? There is a fresh cap on one of these barrels.”
Phil explained that he had had so much to think about the night before he had not noticed the gun at all.
Thereupon Mr. Berkeley, having put upon the other nipple a percussion-cap, which Mr. Muller produced from one of his pockets, went out on the porch to fire out the loads.
He pointed the gun over the lawn, where there was nothing that could be injured, and pulled one trigger. A cap snapped. Then the other trigger. Another snap.
“What is the matter with this old gun?” said Mr. Berkeley, coming into the hall. “I must draw the loads. Where is the ramrod?”
Phil got it from the umbrella-rack, where he had put it when he brought it home. Mr. Berkeley then fixed the screw and, running the ramrod into one of the barrels, proceeded to draw the load. First he pulled out a piece of raw cotton, then another piece, and then some more.
“Why, this load seems to be all wadding!” said Mr. Berkeley, in surprise. “Here is quite a pile of it.”