Her father slid his hand down his suspender strap and wrinkled the loose leather end round his thumb.
“How many’s a hun’red, Pop?”
Avery spoke more slowly than usual. “You git the cigar-box where be my ca’tridges.”
“Be I goin’ to shoot now?” she exclaimed, as she dropped the kitten and skipped into the cabin.
“Got to see him fust,” he said, as she returned with the cigar-box and his glasses.
“Here they be, Pop, and here’s your ‘specs.’” Avery adjusted his spectacles, carried the box of cartridges to the chopping-log and sat down. Beelzebub, who had recovered his now defunct field-mouse, tried to make himself believe it was still alive by tossing it up vigorously and catching it with a curved and graceful paw.
“You count ’em, Swickey, as I hand ’em to you.”
“One.”
“One,” she replied hurriedly.
“Two.”