Bobby looked it over with delight and reverence. This was the first time he had enjoyed it at close hand. The blue of the octagon barrel was like satin; the polish of the stock like a mirror; the gold plating of the most fancy lock and guards like the sheen of silk. Bobby loved, too, the indescribable gun smell of it—compounded probably of the odours of steel, wood and oil. With some difficulty he lifted it to his face and looked through the rather wobbly sights. Reluctantly he gave it back into the storekeeper's hands.
"Would you mind, please," he asked, a little awed, "would you mind letting me see a box of cartridges?"
Stafford smiled and reached to the shelf behind, from which he took a small, square, delightful, red box. It had reading on it, and a portrait of the little cartridges it contained. Bobby feasted his eyes in silence.
"I—I know it's a prize," said he at last. "But—how much was it?"
"Fifteen dollars," replied Mr. Bishop.
Bobby's eyes widened to their utmost capacity.
"Why—why—why!" he gasped; "I thought it must be a thousand."
Both men exploded in laughter, in the confusion of which, stunned, surprised, delighted and excited with the thought of eventual ownership, Bobby marched out the door, where he was joined gravely by Duke, his beautiful feather tail waving slowly to and fro as he walked.
Later in the day Kincaid, the spare, brown man with the twinkling gray eyes, met Mr. Orde on the street.
"Hullo, Orde!" he greeted. "Hear you have a sure win of the tournament."