They were interrupted by a knock at the door.
“Come in,” said Crenshaw, a trifle impatiently, and in response to his bidding the door opened and a small boy entered the room dragging after him a long rifle. Suddenly overcome by a speechless shyness, he paused on the threshold to stare with round, wondering eyes at the two men. “Well, sonny, what do you want?” asked Mr. Crenshaw indulgently.
The boy opened his mouth, but his courage failed him, and with his courage went the words he would have spoken.
“Who is this?” asked Bladen.
“I'll tell, you presently,” said Crenshaw. “Come, speak up, sonny, what do you want?”
“Please, sir, I want this here old spo'tin' rifle,” said: the child. “Please, sir, I want to keep it,” he added.
“Well, you run along on out of here with your old spo'tin' rifle!” said Crenshaw good-naturedly.
“Please, sir, am I to keep it?”
“Yes, I reckon you may keep it—least I've no objection.” Crenshaw glanced at Bladen.
“Oh, by all means,” said the latter. Spasms of delight shook the small figure, and with a murmur that was meant for thanks he backed from the room, closing the door. Bladen glanced inquiringly at Crenshaw.