“What?” I said, in a confused way.
“Wha dat gun?”
“I stood it up against that bush,” I said; and then, shaking off the dull stupid feeling which troubled me, darted to the bush, expecting to see that it had slipped down among the little branches.
The gun was gone, and I looked round at the other bushes dotted about.
“I put it here, didn’t I?”
“Yes; Mass’ George put um gun dah. Pomp know,” he cried, running to me, and dropping on his knees as he pointed to the impression left in the dry sand by the butt. “Gun gone down dah.”
He began scratching up the sand for a few moments, and I watched him, half hoping and believing that he might be right.
But the boy ceased as quickly as he had begun.
“I know, Mass’ George,” he cried, starting up and gazing toward the river. “’Gator ’fraid we come shoot um, and come out of de ribber and ’teal a gun.”
“Nonsense! An alligator wouldn’t do that.”