“Not actually,” answered the boy—again very soberly—“but you know I’ve thought a good deal about it. That’s something. Besides, what if I haven’t had anything to eat for two or three days, and suddenly I see a deer? Bang! There goes my carbine and I’m saved again.”
“Oh, I suppose you’ve got to have it,” answered his mother, in a sort of reconciled tone. “But wouldn’t a little one do as well?”
“That deer might be a quarter of a mile away!”
His mother laughed and patted his hand. Then she grew sober again.
“But promise me one thing, Roy. If you do have to shoot ten rattlesnakes and a poor harmless deer, promise me you won’t kill any Indians—they’re human beings. That would be murder. Promise me that!”
Roy was forced to laugh.
“I’ve got a notion, mother, that there is only one danger with that revolver if I ever fall in with Indians.”
“What’s that?”
“That the Indians may steal it.”
Before his mother could protest further, Roy hurried on with his list. As for clothing, he set down: A Baden-Powell hat, $6; two gray flannel army shirts, $11; one pair Khaki riding breeches, $3.25; three pairs hand-knit woolen socks, $2.25; one pair hand-made, light hunting boots, water proof with moccasin feet and flexible soles, $6; two suits light woolen underwear, $4; two blue silk handkerchiefs, $1.50.