“Don’t make such a racket, Sam!” she cautioned. “What do you want, anyway?”
“Where’s Mother? I’ve got to see her—right off!”
“Well, she ain’t here.”
“Why not?” demanded the boy hotly.
Maggie tossed her head. “Because she can’t very well be in two places at once. And she’s run over to see Mis’ Lake for a minute.”
Sam stamped his foot. “Minute—nothing! I know what that means. She’ll stay half an hour.”
“Well, why shouldn’t she, if she wants to?” said Maggie coolly. And then, being busy, she closed the door and went back to her work.
Sam scowled; hesitated briefly; reached resolution; marched into the library. His little rifle stood in its appointed place against the wall, beside his father’s double-barreled gun. “The armory corner” of the library was a family joke; for though Sam’s rifle was frequently in use, the shotgun had not been taken out of the room in years. It was a fine weapon, of a noted make, and highly prized by its owner, who, however, had not hunted for many seasons; though regularly he planned expeditions in the woods, and bought a fresh stock of ammunition.
Sam laid eager hold upon his rifle; then, of a sudden, seemed to be seized by scorn of it. After all, it was never meant for big game. Why, with its short cartridges and light charges of powder, it was hardly more than a toy! Really, it was intended for target practice.
“Yet, for all that, it’s a rifle,” said the boy to himself. It was odd how, once his prejudice was aroused, arguments presented themselves to strengthen his objections. “And the law says you can’t hunt deer with rifles.”