“Yes,” cried Chris. “I see them—partridges.”
“Something of that kind. Prairie hens, or cocks. They’re good to eat sometimes.”
“Of course; we’ve often had them.”
“Here, I must cut a good thick cudgel first chance on purpose for this lovely playful insect here. We ought to christen him Mosquito. He’s always trying for a bite out of something—hungry beggar. I say, dessay he wouldn’t mind trying a bit of Indian.”
“Give him another punch with your rifle.”
“No!” cried Griggs emphatically. “Never again. I did that idiotic thing twice over before I thought what a fool I was towards myself, and teaching you two lads at the same time.”
“How? What do you mean?”
“Doing what is sure to mean an accident some day. Can’t you see, one holds by the barrel and reaches down the butt?”
“Of course.”
“Well, some day that means jarring the rifle off and sending its charge into you who hold the barrel. Never try such a thing, whatever you do. It’s the work of an idiot, my lads. A man that does such a thing oughtn’t to be trusted with a gun.”