“It sho’ would fer sartain shuh, Massa Bowles.”
“Pshaw, that’s nothing,” scoffed Tubby, with a wink at the others. The fun-loving youth scented a joke. “My uncle had a gun that once killed a deer at three miles.”
“At free miles, Massa Hopkins?”
“Yes. It sounds incredible I know, but they had the state surveyor measure off the ground and sure enough it was three miles.”
“Um-ho!” exclaimed Jumbo, blinking at the fire, “dat’s a wun’ful gun shoh ’nuff. But mah uncle’s gun hed it beat.”
“Impossible, Jumbo!” exclaimed the major.
“Yas, sah, it deed. Mah uncle’s gun done cahhey so fah dat mah uncle he done hed ter put salt on his bullets befo’ he fahed dem.”
“Put salt on his bullets before he fired them, Jumbo! What on earth for?” demanded Rob while the others bent forward interestedly.
“Jes’ becos of de distance at which dat rifle killed,” explained Jumbo. “Yo’ see, and especially in warm weather, dat salt was needed, ’cos it took mah uncle such a time te git to it after he done kill it dat if those bullets weren’t salted the game would hev spoiled. Yes, sah, da’s a fac’, majah.”
A dead silence fell over the camp at the conclusion of this interesting narrative. You could have heard a pin drop. At last the major said, in a solemn voice: