mirror; the gold plating of the
most fancy lock and guards like the sheen of silk. Bobby loved, too, the
indescribable _gun_ smell of it--compounded probably of the odours of
steel, wood and oil. With some difficulty he lifted it to his face and
looked through the rather wobbly sights. Reluctantly he gave it back
into the storekeeper's hands.

"Would you mind, please," he asked, a little awed, "would you mind
letting me see a box of cartridges?"

Stafford smiled and reached to the shelf behind, from which he took a
small, square, delightful, red box. It had reading on it, and a portrait
of the little cartridges it contained. Bobby feasted his eyes in
silence.

"I--I know it's a prize," said he at last. "But--how much _was_ it?"

"Fifteen dollars," replied Mr. Bishop.

Bobby's eyes widened to their utmost capacity.

"Why--why--why!" he gasped; "I thought it must be a thousand."

Both men exploded in laughter, in the confusion of which, stunned,
surprised, delighted and excited with the thought of eventual ownership,
Bobby marched out the door, where he was joined gravely by Duke, his
beautiful feather tail waving slowly to and fro as he walked.

Later in the day Kincaid, the spare, brown man with the twinkling gray
eyes, met Mr. Orde on the street.

"Hullo, Orde!" he greeted. "Hear you have a sure win of the tournament."

"Sure win!" said Orde, puzzled, "What you talking about? You know I
couldn't shoot against you fellows."

"Well, your small boy told me you were going to win that rifle down at
Bishop's, and give it to him."

Orde's face clouded.

"He's been talking nothing but rifle for a month," said he. "I'm going
West in September. Wouldn't have any show against you fellows, anyway."

When Bobby heard this paralyzing piece of news, his entire scheme of
things seemed shattered. For a long time he sat staring with death in
his heart. Then he arose silently and disappeared.

In the Proper Place, among Bobby's other possessions, was a small toy
gun. Its stock was of pine, its lock of polished cast iron, and its
barrel of tin. The pulling of the trigger released a spring in the
barrel, which in turn projected a pebble or other missile a short and
harmless distance. Then a ramrod re-set the spring. When, the previous
Christmas, Bobby had acquired this weapon, he had been very proud of it.
Latterly, however, it had fallen into disfavour as offering too painful
a contrast to the real thing as exemplified