vied more than another, it was old Isaac
Coffin, when he prowled up and down Farmer Ledbitter's fields with an old
blunderbuss and some powder, to keep off the birds!

To be sure it was a public-house, but it was not inside one! And Mother
would call it gambling. Oh, but it wasn't cards or skittles! And if he
shot away his half-pence, how should he pay for the shoeing of the pony?
The blacksmith might trust him, or the clerk at the post-office would
lend him the money, or Betsey Hardman. And the time? One shot would not
waste much! Pony must be shod. Besides, Dick and all the rest would say
he was a baby.

He paid the penny, threw aside his cap, and took the gun, though after
all it was only a sham one, and what a miss he made! What business had
every one to set up that great hoarse laugh? which made him so angry that
he had nearly turned on Dick and cuffed him for his pains.

However, he was the more bent on trying again, and the owner of the
gallery shewed him how to manage better. He hit anything but the middle
of the star, and just saw how he thought he might hit next time. Next
time was barely a miss, so that the man actually gave him a gin-drop to
encourage him. That made him mad to meet with real success; but it was
the turn of another 'young gent,' as the man called him, and Harold had
to stand by, with his penny in his hand, burning with impatience, and
fancying he could mend each shot of that young gent, and another, and
another, and another, who all thrust in to claim their rights before him.
His turn came at last; and so short and straight was the gallery, that he
really did hit once the side of the star, and once the middle, and thus
gained one gingerbread-nut, and three of the gin-drops.

It would have been his nature to share them with Alfred, but he could not
do so without saying where he had been, and that he could not do, so he
gave one to Dick, and swallowed the rest to keep out the cold.

Just then the town clock struck six, and frightened him. He had been
there three-quarters of an hour. What would they say at the post-office?

The clerk looked out of his hole as angry as clerk could look. 'This
won't do, King,' he said. 'Late for sorting! Fine, remember--near an
hour after time.'

'Pony cast a shoe, Sir,' said Harold. He had never been so near a
downright falsehood.

'Whew! Then I suppose I must not report you this time! But look out!
You're getting slack.'

No time thi