On their way home the two boys had occasion to cross a pasture belonging to Deacon Miller, an old farmer whose house and barn were about a furlong distant on a rising ground.
They sauntered along in single file. James had a careless way of carrying his gun, which made some of the boys unwilling to accompany him, unless it was unloaded. Tom had two or three times cautioned him on this very afternoon, but James did not receive his remonstrance in good part.
"Don't trouble yourself so much about my gun, Tom Wyman," he said. "I guess I know how to carry my gun as well as you do."
"I don't doubt that in the least, James, but you must admit that you handle it rather carelessly. Some of the boys don't like to go hunting with you."
"Then they are cowards. I never shot any boy yet," answered James, with some heat.
"No, but you might."
"You are making a great deal of fuss about nothing. I didn't think you were so timid."
"I don't know that I am particularly timid, but I shouldn't like to be riddled with shot," returned Tom, good-humoredly.
"Then you'd better get your life insured when you go out with me next," sneered James.
"I don't know but I shall," said Tom, declining to take offense.