“Why, they’re real pistols.”
“Pistols! Yes—pop-guns. I mean big cannons.”
“Ah, well,” I said, “I’m sorry you will not come, but I must go.”
“That’s always the way when a fellow comes away from our old physic-shop and takes the trouble to walk all these miles. You’re always either out or going out.”
“I can’t help it, Bob,” I replied, feeling rather ill-used. “My father expects me. I have to help him now. You know I like a game as well as ever I did.”
“Ah, well, it don’t matter. Be off.”
“I’m very sorry,” I said, glancing at the old eight-day clock; “but I must go now.”
“Well, didn’t I say, Be off?” cried Bob.
“Good-bye, then!”
I offered him my hand, but he did not take it.