I would not have put that gun against my shoulder and pulled the trigger for a month’s holiday. Uncle Peter, however, did the trick, and fixed the gun so that it was as harmless as a copperhead with its fangs drawn. He got the blacksmith to rivet a couple of iron rings close to the muzzle and another on the breech just above the pan. Next, he put a massive staple in the prow of the skiff, and another and a smaller one on the front seat; a chain with a catch passed through staple and ring, and held everything tight. When the gun was fired the staples received the shock, and no kicking could loosen them.
Uncle Peter finished the job Saturday night, and Sunday morning a mysterious message came from the overseer’s son, Sam, that he was waiting to see me in the shuck-house. I no sooner laid my eyes on him than I knew his mind was full of something.
“Well, Sam, what is it?”
“Mister”—Sam called every white man and boy mister—“I done hearn pop say as you were a-goin’ to use that air big gun.”
“Yes, I am; but you keep your mouth shut about it. You hear, Sam?”
“I ain’t a-goin’ to tell, but you’d better leave her alone.”
“Why?”
“Cause it’ll kick yer liver lights out, that’s why.”
“How do you know?”
“Ef you cross yer heart, an’ say, ‘I hope I may die,’ I tell yer.”