Bobby carried the new rifle into the house, ascended to his own room, and sat down to enjoy it to its smallest detail. The heavy blued octagon barrel bore an inscription which he deciphered—the maker's name, and the patents under which the arm was manufactured. He examined the sights, and how they were fastened to the barrel; the fall of the hammer; the firing-pin; the mechanism of the ejector, the butt plate, the polished stock and the manner in which it was attached to the barrel. Over the fancy scroll of the gold-plated trigger-guard he passed his fingers lovingly. The trigger-guard extended back along the grip of the stock in a long thin metal strip—also gold-plated. It, too, bore an inscription. Bobby read it once without taking in its meaning; a second time with growing excitement. Then he rushed madly through the house shrieking for his mother.
"Mamma, Mamma!" he cried. "Where are you? Come here!"
Mrs. Orde came—on the run—likewise the cook, and the butcher. They found Bobby dancing wildly around and around, hugging close to his heart the Flobert rifle.
"Bobby, Bobby!" cried Mrs. Orde. "What is it? What's the matter? Are you hurt?"
She caught sight of the gun, leaped to the conclusion that Bobby had shot himself and sank limply into a chair.
"See! Look here!" cried Bobby. He thrust the rifle, bottom up into her lap. "Read it!"
On the plate behind the trigger-guard, carved in flowing script, were these words.
To Robert Orde from Arthur Kincaid. September 10, 1879.