One day while at work in his shop he looked up and saw the boy standing in the door watching him closely and with evident admiration.
“Come in, my lad,” said Jack, laying down his big hammer. “What is yo' name?”
“Well, I don't know that that makes any difference,” he replied smiling, “I might ask you what is yours.”
Jack flushed, but he pitied the lad.
He smiled: “I guess you an' I could easily understan' each other, lad—what can I do for you?”
“I wanted you to fix my pistol for me, sir—and—and I haven't anything to pay you.”
Jack looked it over—the old duelling pistol. He knew at once it was Colonel Jeremiah Travis's. The boy had gotten it somehow. The hair-spring trigger was out of fix. Jack soon repaired it and said:
“Now, son, she's all right, and not a cent do I charge you.”
“I didn't mean that,” said the boy, flushing. “I have no money, but I want to pay you, for I need this pistol—need it very badly.”