by the Flobert Rifle.

Bobby rummaged the darkness of the Proper Place until he found this toy
gun. From the sack in his father's closet--forbidden--he deliberately
abstracted a handful of bird-shot. Retiring to the woodshed, he set the
spring in the gun, poured in what he considered to be about the proper
quantity of shot, and solemnly discharged it at the high fence. The
leaden pellets sprayed out and spattered harmlessly against the boards.
Thrice Bobby repeated this. Then, quite without heat or rancour, he
threw the toy gun and what remained of the shot over the fence into the
vacant lot behind it. His common sense had foretold just this result to
his experiment, so he was not in the least disappointed; but he had
considered it his duty to try the only expedient his ingenuity could
invent. For if--by a miracle--the little gun had discharged the shot
with force; Bobby might--by a miracle--be permitted to participate with
it in the Shoot; and might--by a miracle--win the Flobert himself. Bobby
was no fool. He marked the necessity of three miracles; and he did not
in the least expect them. Merely he wished to fulfill his entire duty to
the situation.

Saturday morning--the very day of the Shoot--Mr. Orde left for
California.

After lunch Bobby trudged to Main Street, turned to the right, away from
town, and set himself in patient motion toward the shooting grounds.

These were situated some two miles out along the county road. Bobby had
driven to them many times, but had never attempted to cover the distance
afoot. The sun was hot, and the way dusty. Many buggies and one large
carry-all passed him, each full of the participants in the contest. No
one thought of giving Bobby a lift, in fact no one noticed him at all.
He could not help thinking how different it would be if only his father
had not gone West.

"Hello!" called a hearty voice behind him.

He turned to see a yellow two-wheeled cart drawn by a gaunt white horse.
On the seat close to the horse's tail sat Mr. Kincaid.

"Going to the Shoot?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," said Bobby.

"Well, jump in."

Mr. Kincaid moved one side, and lifted half the seat so Bobby could
climb in from the rear. Then he let the seat down again and clucked to
the horse.

Mr. Kincaid wore an ancient gray slouch hat pulled low over his eyes;
and a very old suit of gray clothes, wrinkled and baggy. Somehow, in
contrast, his skin showed browner than ever. He looked down at Bobby,