“Deary me, Dick,” said Mrs Varley, who now proceeded to spread the youth’s mid-day meal before him, “did ye drive the nail three times?”
“No, only once, and that not parfetly. Brought ’em all down at one shot—rifle, Fan, an’ pup!”
“Well, well, now that was cliver; but—” Here the old woman paused and looked grave.
“But what, mother?”
“You’ll be wantin’ to go off to the mountains now, I fear me, boy.”
“Wantin’ now!” exclaimed the youth earnestly; “I’m always wantin’. I’ve bin wantin’ ever since I could walk; but I won’t go till you let me, mother, that I won’t!” And he struck the table with his fist so forcibly that the platters rung again.
“You’re a good boy, Dick; but you’re too young yit to ventur’ among the Red-skins.”
“An’ yit, if I don’t ventur’ young, I’d better not ventur’ at all. You know, mother dear, I don’t want to leave you; but I was born to be a hunter, and everybody in them parts is a hunter, and I can’t hunt in the kitchen you know, mother!”
At this point the conversation was interrupted by a sound that caused young Varley to spring up and seize his rifle, and Fan to show her teeth and growl.
“Hist! mother; that’s like horses’ hoofs,” he whispered, opening the door and gazing intently in the direction whence the sound came.