“I don’t want any more promises about your not shooting at anything but targets, my boy,” said Mr. Martin. “You gave me your promise a month ago and that’s enough. But I want you to promise me again that you’ll be careful. Understand?”
“I tell you what I’ll do, Dad,” said he. “First I’ll see that there’s nobody in the barn. Then I’ll lock the barn doors. Then I’ll get a big sheet of iron that I saw up there and I’ll hang it on the side of the barn. Then I’ll paste the target against that, see? No bullet could get through that iron and it’s about, oh, five times larger than the target.”
“Suppose your shot should go wild and hit those old punky boards beyond the edge of the iron sheet?” Mr. Martin asked.
“Good night, you’re a scream!” laughed Westy.
Mr. Martin, as usual, was caught by his son’s honest, wholesome good-humor.
“I suppose you think I might shoot in the wrong direction and hit one of those grizzlies out in Yellowstone Park,” Westy laughed. “Safety first is your middle name all right.”
“Well, you go up to Uncle Dick’s and don’t point your gun out west,” said Mr. Martin, “and maybe we can talk your mother into letting us go to Yellowstone next year.”
“And will you make me a promise?” asked Westy.
“Well, what is it?”
“That you won’t worry?”