ave it over night, the powder dirt will make a
fine rust that you may never be able to get out; and rust will eat into
the rifling and make the gun inaccurate. No matter how late it is, or
how tired you are, _always clean your gun_ before you go to bed. It's
the second most important thing I can teach you. You'll see lots of men
who can kill game, perhaps, but remember this; the fellow who lets his
gun point toward no living thing but his game, and who keeps it bright
and clean, is further along toward being a true sportsman--even if he is
a very poor shot--than the careless man who can hit them."

He gave Bobby the steel wire cleaning-rod, the rags, and the oil can,
and showed him how to get all the powder residue from the rifling
grooves in the barrel.

"There," said Mr. Kincaid, folding back the half-seat, "climb in. That
settles it for to-day."

Bucephalus came to with reluctance. Going down hill he settled into a
slow steady jog, which soon covered the distance to the Orde house.
Bobby climbed out and turned to utter thanks.

"That's all right," said Mr. Kincaid. "Next time I'm going to shoot,
myself; and you'll have to rustle to beat me. Don't forget the score
book."

"When will it be?" asked Bobby.

"Oh, Thursday again," replied Mr. Kincaid. He disengaged the Flobert
from between his knees. "Here," said he; "you take this and put it away
carefully. I'll keep the ammunition," he added with a grim smile.
"Remember not to snap it. Snapping's bad for it when it is empty.
Good-bye."

He drove off down the street beneath the over-arching maples, the old
white horse jogging sleepily, the old yellow cart lurching. Over his
shoulder floated puffs of smoke from his pipe.

Bobby carried the new rifle into the house, ascended to his own room,
and sat down to enjoy it to its smallest detail. The heavy blued octagon
barrel bore an inscription which he deciphered--the maker's name, and
the patents under which the arm was manufactured. He examined the
sights, and how they were fastened to the barrel; the fall of the
hammer; the firing-pin; the mechanism of the ejector, the butt plate,
the polished stock and the manner in which it was attached to the
barrel. Over the fancy scroll of the gold-plated trigger-guard he passed
his fingers lovingly. The trigger-guard extended back along the grip of
the stock in a long thin metal strip--also gold-plated. It, too, bore an
inscription. Bobby read it once without taking in its me