Dale Ogden, taxiing up from the two o’clock train some time later, to her surprise discovered the front door locked and rang for some time before she could get an answer. At last, Billy appeared, white-coated, with an inscrutable expression on his face.
“Will you take my bag, Billy—thanks. Where is Miss Van Gorder—taking a nap?”
“No,” said Billy succinctly. “She take no nap. She out in srubbery shotting.”
Dale stared at him incredulously. “Shooting, Billy?”
“Yes, ma’am. At least—she not shoot yet but she say she going to soon.”
“But, good heavens, Billy—shooting what?”
“Shotting pistol,” said Billy, his yellow mask of a face preserving its impish repose. He waved his hand. “You go srubbery. You see.”
The scene that met Dale’s eyes when she finally found the “srubbery” was indeed a singular one. Miss Van Gorder, her back firmly planted against the trunk of a large elm tree and an expression of ineffable distaste on her features, was holding out a blunt, deadly looking revolver at arm’s length. Its muzzle wavered, now pointing at the ground, now at the sky. Behind the tree Lizzie sat in a heap, moaning quietly to herself, and now and then appealing to the saints to avert a visioned calamity.
As Dale approached, unseen, the climax came. The revolver steadied, pointed ferociously at an inoffensive grass-blade some 10 yards from Miss Van Gorder and went off. Lizzie promptly gave vent to a shrill Irish scream. Miss Van Gorder dropped the revolver like a hot potato and opened her mouth to tell Lizzie not to be such a fool. Then she saw Dale—her mouth went into a round O of horror and her hand clutched weakly at her heart.
“Good heavens, child!” she gasped. “Didn’t Billy tell you what I was doing? I might have shot you like a rabbit!” and, overcome with emotion, she sat down on the ground and started to fan herself mechanically with a cartridge.