othing was left but the barrel of our precious gun and some crooked
iron representing the remains of the lock. There are things that are
never entirely forgotten, though the impression may become fainter as
years go by. The sense of the cruel injustice of that act will never
quite depart.

But they could not burn the barrel, and we almost succeeded in fitting
it to a stock of elder. Elder has a thick pith running down the centre:
by removing that the gouge and chisel had not much work to do to make a
groove for the old bell-mouthed barrel to lie in. The matchlock, for as
such it was intended, was nearly finished when our hopes were dashed to
the ground by a piece of unnatural cunning. One morning the breechpiece
that screwed in was missing. This was fatal. A barrel without a
breechpiece is like a cup without a bottom. It was all over.

There are days in spring when the white clouds go swiftly past, with
occasional breaks of bright sunshine lighting up a spot in the
landscape. That is like the memory of one's youth. There is a long dull
blank, and then a brilliant streak of recollection. Doubtless it was a
year or two afterwards when, seeing that the natural instinct could not
be suppressed but had better be recognised, they produced a real gun
(single-barrel) for me from the clock-case.

It stood on the landing just at the bottom of the dark flight that led
to the garret. An oaken case six feet high or more, and a vast dial,
with a mysterious picture of a full moon and a ship in full sail that
somehow indicated the quarters of the year, if you had been imitating
Rip Van Winkle and after a sleep of six months wanted to know whether it
was spring or autumn. But only to think that all the while we were
puzzling over the moon and the ship and the queer signs on the dial a
gun was hidden inside! The case was locked, it is true; but there are
ways of opening locks, and we were always handy with tools.

This gun was almost, but not quite so long as the other. That dated from
the time between Stuart and Hanover; this might not have been more than
seventy years old. And a beautiful piece of workmanship it was: my new
double breechloader is a coarse common thing to compare with it. Long
and slender and light as a feather, it came to the shoulder with
wonderful ease. Then there was a groove on the barrel at the breech and
for some inches up which caught the eye and guided the glance like a
trough to the sight at the muzzle and