“Now, don’t talk in that way,” said Harry; “why, marm Juno, you and Clump will live to dance at my wedding; see if you don’t; and now, Juno, just give us a kettle of hot water, will you, to rinse out these gun-barrels with.”
When the guns were washed, dried, and rubbed off with oil, I said to Clump, “Have you got any bullets or buckshot?”
“Don’t know, Massa Bob—’spects so, en my ole tool-box.”
“Why,” asked Drake, “what are you going to do, Bob, with bullets and buckshot?”
Clump was down on his knees in the closet, overhauling the tool-box he had spoken of.
“Well, Drake, I’ll tell you if Clump finds the articles,” I answered.
“Have you got any, Clump?”
“Yah, Massa, ’ere’s a han’ful.”
“These bullets and buckshot,” I continued, “are for Walter and Harry to load their guns with; for, just as sure as that fellow came here this afternoon, just so sure, I believe, he will be back here before morning with more like him.”
“What stuff,” sang out Walter, laughing; “what puts that in your head, Bob?”