The tall youth was carrying a package, wrapped in a newspaper. He laid it on the ground, and took the gun from Sam’s hands, balancing the weapon lovingly and finally raising it to his shoulder.
“Gee, but what a daisy!” he exclaimed. “Whose is it? Yours?”
“Oh, it isn’t exactly mine, Step, but I’m using it,” said Sam.
Any boy could have told how Clarence Jones came by his nickname. “Step” was an abbreviation of “Step-ladder”; and undeniably Master Jones did bear a resemblance to that valuable, if not graceful, article of household equipment.
“Here, let me take the shooting-iron!” the plump youth urged. His name was Arthur Green, but he was called “Poke,” because one so easily could dig a finger into his fat sides. Having placed the basket he had been carrying beside Step’s bundle, his hands were free to lay hold upon the gun. There was a little tussle, and Poke captured the prize.
“My eyes! but this is a crackerjack!” was his comment. “Jiminy, but you’re the lucky chap, Sam! What are you after?”
Sam did his best to appear blasé. “Oh, thought maybe I might get a shot at a buck.”
The reception of the remark was not flattering. “You!” jeered Step; Poke laughed.
“Why not?” Sam demanded, indignantly.
“That’s ri-right; why not?” Poke was quivering with amusement. “All you’ve got to do is to hold the gun and pull the trigger; and if only a deer happens to walk in the way, the gun’ll do the rest.”