“Goodness me! would you shoot me?” he gasped, fairly white to his lips.
“Don’t be a fool, uncle,” responded Brandon with asperity, opening the hall door again and bringing in a gun case which had been standing in the corner of the other apartment. “The rifle isn’t loaded, and, besides, what do you suppose I’d want to shoot you for?”
“Oh, you young villain, you!” groaned old Arad, paying for his agile movements of the moment before by several rheumatic twinges.
“Thanks! Well, uncle, I guess I’ll be off. I don’t suppose you’ll shake hands with a fellow?” and Brandon stopped, with his hand on the door latch.
“I’ll have ye a’rested afore ye git ter Rockland!” the old man shouted, shaking his clenched fist at him.
“You’d better not try it,” the boy declared, with flashing eyes.
Arad followed him outside, sputtering.
“Ye’ll live ter rue this day, ye young villain!” he cried. “I’ll show ye no mercy.”
“All right; it’s all the same to me,” Brandon returned, and whistling cheerfully, he went out of the gate and started down the road with his burden of traveling bag and gun case.
It was a beautiful morning, despite the rain of the day before. True, there were puddles of muddy water standing in the road and patches of dirty snow in the fence corners and under the hedges. But these drawbacks did not serve to cloud either the clear azure sky or Brandon’s bright hopes.