the fine good-humour lines about his eyes deepening.

"Well youngster," said he, "where's your father?"

Bobby's eyes fell; he kicked his feet back and forth. Beneath them lay
Mr. Kincaid's worn leather gun-case, and an oblong japanned box which
Bobby knew contained shells. For an instant he struggled with himself.

"He--he had to go to California," he choked; and looked away quickly to
hide the tears that sprang to his eyes.

Mr. Kincaid whistled and raised his hand so abruptly that the old white
horse, mistaking the movement for a signal, stopped dead, and instantly
went to sleep.

"Get ap, Bucephalus!" cried Mr. Kincaid indignantly.

Bucephalus deliberately awoke, and after a moment's pause moved on. To
Bobby's relief Mr. Kincaid said nothing further, but humped over the
reins, and looked ahead steadily across the horse's back. He stole a
glance at the older man; and suddenly without reason a great wave of
affection swept over him. He liked his companion's clear brown skin, and
the close clipped gray of his hair, and his big gray moustache beneath
which the corners of his mouth quirked faintly up, and the network of
fine crow's feet at his temples, and the clear steady steel-colour of
his eyes beneath the bushy brows. On the spot Bobby enshrined a hero.

But now they turned off the main road through a gap in the snake-fence,
and followed many wheel tracks to the farther confines of the field
where, under a huge tree they could see a group of men. These hailed Mr.
Kincaid with joy.

"Hello, Kin, old man," they roared. "Got here, did you? What day did you
start? The old thing must be about dead. Lean him up against a tree, and
come tell us about the voyage."

"The cannon-ball express is strictly on schedule time, boys," replied
Mr. Kincaid, looking solemnly at his watch.

He drove to the fence, where he tied Bucephalus. The other rigs were
hitched here and there at distances that varied as the gun-shyness of
the horses. Bobby proudly bore the gun-case. Mr. Kincaid lifted out the
heavy box of shells.

Bobby took in the details of the scene with a delight that even his just
cause for depression could not quench.

The men, some twenty in number, sprawled on the ground or sat on boxes.
Before them stood a wooden rack with sockets, in which already were
stacked a number of shotguns. Two pails of water flanked this rack, in
each of which had been thrust a slotted hickory "wiper" threaded with a
square of cloth.