"I'd have done it—to old Pritchard," maintained Bobby stoutly.
After a time Mr. Kincaid returned to the first subject.
"There is no doubt, Bobby," said he, "that a man careless enough to shoot at anything without knowing what it is—especially in a settled country—is not fit to have a gun of any kind. There are plenty of people killed every year through just such carelessness. On that ground you are quite right in saying that you do not deserve the new shotgun."
"Yes, sir," said Bobby.
"But you will never do anything like that again. You have learned your lesson. And you told the truth. That is a great thing. It is easy to cover up a mistake; but very hard to show it when you don't have to. I was a little disappointed that you forgot about shooting at things; but I am more than proud that you remembered to be a sportsman. With your father's permission, I'm going to get you that shotgun, just the same. We'll go down together in the morning to get it."
At the end of ten minutes more, Bobby returned to his room. He looked about it as one looks on a half-remembered spot visited long ago. The place seemed smaller; the toys trivial. A deep gulf had been passed since he had left the room a half-hour before. To his eyes had opened a new vision. Little Boyhood had fallen away from him as a garment. A touch had loosed. All experience and observation had led the way; but it was only in expectation of the supreme test of self-sacrifice. Character changes radically only under that test. Bobby had borne it well; and now stood at the threshold of his Youth.
He picked up the Flobert rifle and looked it over.
"It'll always be handy to fool with," said he to Johnny.
That youngster looked up with sardonic humour.
"Gee, you're gettin' swelled head with your new gun," said he.