“What, couldn't you hit a chap like Stevens between the eyes at ten paces? I'm sure I could do it, blindfolded, by a sort of instinct.”
And the youth, shutting his eyes, as if to try the experiment, drew forth one of his pistols from his bosom, and began to direct its muzzle around the room.
“There was a black spider THERE, gran'pa! I'm sure, taking him for Stevens, I could cut his web for him.”
“You have cut that of Stevens himself, and his comb too, Ned.”
“Yes, yes—but what a fool I was not to make it his gills!”
By this time the old man had got on his spencer, and, with staff in hand, declared himself in readiness. Ned Hinkley lowered his pistol with reluctance. He was very anxious to try the weapon and his own aim, on somebody or something. That black spider which lived so securely in the domicil of Mr. Calvert would have stood no chance in any apartment of the widow Hinkley. Even the “pacificator” would have been employed for its extermination, if, for no other reason, because of the fancied resemblance which it had always worn to Brother Stevens—a resemblance which occurred to him, perhaps, in consequence of the supposed similarity between the arts of the libertine and those for the entrapping of his victims which distinguish the labors of the spider.
The two were soon arrived at old Hinkley's, and the tale of Ned was told; but, such was the bigotry of the hearers, without securing belief.
“So blessed a young man!” said the old lady.
“A brand from the burning!” exclaimed Brother Cross.
“It's all an invention of Satan!” cried old Hinkley, “to prevent the consummation of a goodly work.”