Ira Hasbrook took no notice of the tribute paid him by the mother and daughter and father who clustered about him evidently not in the least afraid of the gun now that it was in his hands. Even Mr. Martin contemplated it without a quiver. Upon the library table lay one cartridge. The other had done its good turn. “Yer see this here is one of them repeaters,” said Ira. “’Tain’t goin’ ter hurt yer. Yer see these here two cartridges I got in my pocket? They come outer the deer. They ain’t the same size, yer see? Two guns. The one I jes took out matches that there little one outer my pocket. This here big one came outer another gun—that ain’t no repeater. Now looka here, here’s what tells the story—the gol blamed little rascal of a double barrel prince! Looka here—feel on the end of that barrel. Powder.
“Feel, mister, ’twon’t bite yer. Yer know what that means? That means yer a proud father. I wasn’t gone ter shake hands with yer, but gol blame it, I think I will! Feel it! Smell it! Powder, all right. That means your boy was—about—gol, that toy o’ his wasn’t six inch............