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"Powder's what we want fo' to make this old spo'tin' rifle talk up, and I reckon we'll find some in a horn flask in the bottom of my cart." His expectations in this particular were realized, and he loaded the rifle with a small blank charge.
He carried the old spo'tin' rifle he had brought from the Barony, and suspended from his shoulder by a leather thong was the big horn flask with its hickory stopper his Uncle Bob had fashioned for him, while a deerskin pouch held his bullets and an extra flint or two. He understood that beyond those smacks he had seen his Uncle Bob fetch Mr.
"Well, you run along on out of here with your old spo'tin' rifle!" said Crenshaw good-naturedly. "Please, sir, am I to keep it?" "Yes, I reckon you may keep it least I've no objection." Crenshaw glanced at Bladen. "Oh, by all means," said the latter. Spasms of delight shook the small figure, and with a murmur that was meant for thanks he backed from the room, closing the door.
It was Hannibal Wayne Hazard asleep, with his old spo'tin' rifle across his knees. His very existence had been forgotten. "Well, I declare to goodness!" said Crenshaw. "What are you going to do with him, Mr. John?" This question nettled Crenshaw. "I don't know as that is any particular affair of mine," he said. Now, Mr.
The boy opened his mouth, but his courage failed him, and with his courage went the words he would have spoken. "Who is this?" asked Bladen. "I'll tell, you presently," said Crenshaw. "Come, speak up, sonny, what do you want?" "Please, sir, I want this here old spo'tin' rifle," said: the child. "Please, sir, I want to keep it," he added.
Schwalliger's chest protruded, and his very red lips opened in a smile as he answered: "Well, I do' know'th I'm tho much of a thpo't, but I think I knowth a thing or two." "You look lak a spo'tin' gent'man, an' ef you is I thought mebbe you'd he'p me out." "Wha'th the mattah? Up againtht it? You look a little ol' to be doin' the gay an' frithky." But Schwalliger's eyes were kind.
All the men had something and tapped rims with the visitor. "'Pears to me you people is mighty clevah up hyeah; 'tain' no wondah Zachariah don' wan' to come home." Just then they heard a loud whoop outside the door, and a voice broke in upon them singing thickly, "Oh, this spo'tin' life is surely killin' me." The men exchanged startled glances.
"Are you the little nevvy what will help him to hook up that old blind mule of hisn? Here, give us the spo'tin' rifle to tote!" "Please, sir, where is Aunt Alsidia?" asked the child. Yancy balanced the rifle on his great palm and his eyes assumed a speculative cast. "I wonder what's to hinder us from loading this old gun, and firing this old gun, and hearing this old gun go-bang! Eh?"
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