“This, for one thing,” I said, carelessly, picking up my gun-case. I slowly drew out the barrels of Damascus, then the rose-wood stock and fore-end, assembling them lovingly; for it was the finest weapon I had ever seen, and it was breaking my heart to give it away.
The poacher’s eyes began to glitter as I fitted the double bolts and locked breech and barrel with the extension rib. Then I snapped on the fore-end; and there lay the gun in my hands, a fowling-piece fit for an emperor.
“Give it?” muttered the poacher, huskily.
“Take it, my friend the Lizard,” I replied, smiling down the wrench in my heart.
There was a silence; then the poacher stepped forward, and, looking me square in the eye, flung out his hand. I struck my open palm smartly against his, in the Breton fashion; then we clasped hands.
“You mean honestly by the little one?”
“Yes,” I said; “strike palms by Sainte Thekla of Ycône!”
We struck palms heavily.
“She is a child,” he said; “there is no vice in her; yet I’ve seen them nearly finished at her age in Paris.” And he swore terribly as he said it.
We dropped hands in silence; then, “Is this gun mine?” he demanded, hoarsely.