Charmed by the gift of the shilling, the old man told the small white boy the story of the Magic Gun in quavering voice, sometimes scarcely to be heard, for he was very frail; indeed, though little Tom Jones did not know it, this was the last time he, or any one else, was to hear the story of the Magic Gun from poor old King Barak of Coranderrk Station.
Tom drew a deep breath as the old man finished his story.
“Let me look at the gun, Barak,” he pleaded.
The old black took him into his hut, and proudly showed him an old-fashioned gun.
“And that is the gun that Buckly, the white man who was lost and lived among the blacks, really used?”
“Course it is, didn’t I tell you,” said King Barak.
“And he really used nails instead of bullets?”
“Course he did with this gun, it’s a Magic Gun,” answered the old man.
“And he put his knife into its——”
“Tom, Tom, we are going, come along,” called the voice of authority, so Tom could not finish his questioning, but had to drive away with the others.