“Nobody except me sees any sense in all this,” said Guy, as he closed the door behind him, and gazed about the room with a smile of satisfaction. “There isn’t a thing here that will not be of use to me by and by. That rubber blanket will keep me dry when it rains. That powder-horn I shall have filled at St. Joseph or Independence, and, as a rifle requires but little ammunition, it will hold enough to last me during a year’s hunting. That knife will answer my purpose as well as one worth two dollars and a half, for I can sharpen it, and make a sheath for it out of the skin of the first buffalo or antelope I kill. I must sell my iron again before long. How the fellows laugh at me because I am all the while looking out for old horseshoes and such things! But I don’t care. I’ve made many a dime by it, and dimes make dollars. I never neglect a chance to turn a penny, but I haven’t yet saved a quarter of what I need. I found half a dollar the other day by keeping my eyes turned down as I walked along the street, and that was a big lift, I tell you.”
As Guy said this he opened a small tool-chest that stood beside the pile of old iron. In this were stowed away a variety of articles he had picked up at odd times and in different places, and which he thought he might find useful when he reached the prairie.
There was a small bundle of wax-ends, such as shoemakers use. These would come handy when he needed a pair of good leggings, or when his moccasins, saddle, or bridle, got out of repair. There were several iron and bone rings he could use in making lassos or martingales for his horse; three or four pounds of lead for his bullets, and a ladle to melt it in; half a dozen jackknives, some whole and sound, others broken beyond all hope of repair; a multitude of lines, fish-hooks, sinkers and bobbers, which he intended to use on the mountain streams and lakes of which he had read so much; a few steel-traps, all bent and worthless, and also several “figure fours” which he had made so as to have them ready for use when he reached his hunting-grounds. In this receptacle Guy placed his match-box, congratulating himself on having secured another valuable addition to his outfit. This done, he bent his steps toward his house.
When he entered the dining-room he found his father and mother seated at the table, and he knew by the expression on their faces, as well as by the words that fell upon his ear, that there was a storm brewing. His mother had been relating the particulars of the encounter between Henry Stewart and George Wolcom, and repeating the discussion between Guy and the bully that led to it, all of which she had seen and overheard from her chamber window, and our hero came in just in time to hear her declare:
“I never in my life saw boys behave so disgracefully. Mrs. Stewart ran out of the house and tried to put a stop to the disturbance, but they paid not the least attention to her.”
“Guy,” said Mrs. Harris, “where is that article, whatever it is, that has been the cause of all this trouble?”
“I have put it away,” was the reply.
“Go and get it immediately.”
Guy retraced his steps to the carriage-house, and taking out the match-box, carried it to his father, who looked at it contemptuously.
“This is a pretty thing to raise a fight about, isn’t it?” he exclaimed. “Take it and throw it away.”