“I wish that it were!” said Mr. Parker, with feeling. “But the fact remains that he insists he was gunning this morning in Marlow woods; and that he declares that he mistook a man for a deer, and fired at him.”
“Tush, tush! That’s all a piece of boyish imagination. He’s been reading dime novels! Haven’t you, young man?” And the Major shook a bony forefinger in Sam’s face.
“No, sir; I haven’t.” Sam spoke firmly, and his eyes did not fall before the Major’s.
“Do you expect me to believe you were the fellow who winged me?”
“Yes, sir.”
The Major went back to his chair. He dropped into it almost limply. “Out with your story, boy!” said he. “I’ll listen—I’ve got to, I suppose.”
The dreaded moment had arrived. Sam nerved himself to the task before him. The keen, old eyes under the bushy brows never left his face. He felt that they were penetrating every secret of his soul. But, after all, he had nothing but the truth to tell; and there was nothing he wished to conceal. Slowly at first, and then more rapidly, if not more easily, he reviewed the events of the morning. He dealt with his hunt through the woods; described the twin ridges and the valley between. Then the Major broke in upon him.
“By Jove, boy, but you have the lay of the land pat!” he exclaimed. “Go over that again, please—about the bushes where you hid, and the others where you saw something move.”
Sam repeated this part of his story. The Major stalked to a closet, and stalked back, carrying a woolen cap, dark red in color.
“Was that what you saw?” he demanded grimly.