“Well, now,” said the judge, “you’ve had your little fling at wild west stuff, you’ve killed your deer and paid the penalty and you see it isn’t so much fun after all. You see where it brings you. Now I want you to go home and tell your father that you shot a deer out of season and that it cost you a cold hundred dollars. See?”
“Yes, sir,” said Westy.
“You ask him if he thinks that pays. And you tell him I said for him to take that infernal toy away from you before you shoot somebody or other’s little brother or sister—or your own mother, maybe.”
Westy winced.
“If I were your father instead of justice of the peace here, I’d take that gun away from you and give you a good trouncing and set you to reading the right kind of books—that’s what I’d do.”
“I wouldn’ leave no young un of mine carry no hundred dollars in his pockets, nuther,” volunteered Farmer Sands.
“Well, it’s good he had it,” said the justice, “or I’d have had to commit him.” Then turning to Westy, he said, “Maybe that hundred dollars is well spent if it taught you a lesson. You go along home now and tell your father what I said. And you tell him I said that a rifle is not only a dangerous thing but a pretty expensive thing to keep.”
“Yes, sir,” said Westy.
“Are you sorry for what you did?”
“As long as I paid the fine do I have to answer more questions?” asked Westy.