o Sam's father's bedroom, and Sam closed the door
with a caution so genuine that already Penrod's eyes began to fulfil his
host's prediction. Adventures in another boy's house are trying to the
nerves; and another boy's father's bedroom, when invaded, has a violated
sanctity that is almost appalling. Penrod felt that something was about
to happen--something much more important than he had anticipated.

Sam tiptoed across the room to a chest of drawers, and, kneeling,
carefully pulled out the lowest drawer until the surface of its
contents--Mr. Williams' winter underwear--lay exposed. Then he fumbled
beneath the garments and drew forth a large object, displaying it
triumphantly to the satisfactorily dumfounded Penrod.

It was a blue-steel Colt's revolver, of the heaviest pattern made in the
Seventies. Mr. Williams had inherited it from Sam's grandfather (a small
man, a deacon, and dyspeptic) and it was larger and more horrible than
any revolver either of the boys had ever seen in any picture, moving or
stationary. Moreover, greenish bullets of great size were to be seen
in the chambers of the cylinder, suggesting massacre rather than mere
murder. This revolver was Real and it was Loaded!

CHAPTER IV. BINGISM

Both boys lived breathlessly through a magnificent moment.

"Leave me have it!" gasped Penrod. "Leave me have hold of it!"

"You wait a minute!" Sam protested, in a whisper. "I want to show you
how I do."

"No; you let me show you how _I_ do!" Penrod insisted; and they scuffled
for possession.

"Look out!" Sam whispered warningly. "It might go off."

"Then you better leave me have it!" And Penrod, victorious and flushed,
stepped back, the weapon in his grasp. "Here," he said, "this is the way
I do: You be a crook; and suppose you got a dagger, and I--"

"I don't want any dagger," Sam protested, advancing. "I want that
revolaver. It's my father's revolaver, ain't it?"

"Well, WAIT a minute, can't you? I got a right to show you the way I DO,
first, haven't I?" Penrod began an improvisation on the spot. "Say I'm
comin' along after dark like this--look, Sam! And say you try to make a
jump at me--"

"I won't!" Sam declined this role impatiently. "I guess it ain't YOUR
father's revolaver, is it?"

"Well, it may be your father's but it ain't yours," Penrod argued,
becoming logical. "It ain't either'r of us revolaver, so I got as much
right--"

"You haven't either. It's my fath--"

"WATCH, can't you--