Mr. Kincaid ceased his occupation, removed his pipe from his mouth, and looked up at Bobby searchingly.
"Youngster," he said kindly, "I'm not beat."
"You're behind," insisted Bobby, "and Newmark never misses."
Mr. Kincaid arose slowly, and without a word took Bobby by the arm and led him around the tree. He stopped and raised Bobby's chin in his gnarled brown hand until the little boy's eyes looked straight into his own. Bobby noticed that the twinkle had—not disappeared—but drawn far back into their gray depths, which had become unaccountably sober.
"Bobby," said Mr. Kincaid gravely, "always remember this, all your life, no matter what happens to you; a man is never defeated until the very last shot is fired."
He paused.
"And remember this, too: that even if he is defeated, he is not beaten, provided he has done the very best he could, and has never lost heart."
He looked a moment longer into Bobby's eyes; and the little boy saw the gray twinkle flickering back to the surface, and the crow's-feet deepening good-naturedly.
"That's all, sonny," he said, and withdrew his hand from Bobby's chin.
"So you want to see me win the rifle, do you?" asked Mr. Kincaid, as they turned away.