Cathcart.
"What is it?" demanded Bobby again.
"We are going home to-morrow," Celia announced mournfully. "Mamma has a
letter."
Bobby stopped short.
"Going home!" he echoed.
"Yes," said Celia.
"Then we won't see each other till next summer!" he cried.
"No," said she.
"And we can't walk any more or--or----" Bobby felt the lump rising in
his throat.
"No," said Celia.
Bobby swallowed hard.
"Are--are you sorry?" he asked.
"Yes," replied Celia quietly. "Are you?"
"I don't know what I'm going to do!" cried Bobby desperately.
After a little, the main fact of the catastrophe being accepted, they
talked of the winter to come.
"You'll write me some letters, won't you?" pleaded Bobby.
"If you write to me."
"Of course I will write to you. And you'll send me your picture, won't
you? You said you would."
"I don't believe I have any," demurred Celia; "and mamma has them all;
and they're very comspensive."
"I'll give you one of mine," offered Bobby, "if I have to get it from
the album. Please, Celia."
"I'll see," said she.
They were moving again slowly beneath the trees.
Bobby looked up the street; he looked back. He turned swiftly to her.
"Celia," he asked, "may I kiss you?"
"Yes," said Celia steadily.
She stopped short, looking straight ahead. Bobby leaned over and his
lips just touched her cool smooth cheek. They walked on in silence. The
next day Celia was gone.
VII
UNTIL THE LAST SHOT
There remained as consolation after this heartbreaking defection but
two interesting things in life--the printing press and the Flobert
Rifle. Somehow the week dragged through until Sunday, when Bobby duly
scrubbed and dressed, had to go to church with his father and mother.
Bobby, to tell the truth, did not care very much for church. Always his
glance was straying to a single upper-section of one of the windows,
which, being tipped inward at the bottom, permitted him a glimpse of
green leaves flushed with sunlight. A very joyous bird emphasized the
difference between the bright world and this dim, decorous interior with
its faint church aroma compounded of morocco leather, flowers, and the
odour of Sunday garments. Only when the four ushers tiptoed about with
the collection boxes on the end of handles, like exaggerated
corn-poppers, did the lethargy into which he had fallen break for a
moment. The irregular passage of the receptacle from one to another was
at least a motion not ordered in the deliberate rhythm of decorum; and
the clink of the money was pleasantly removed from the soporific. Bobby
gazed with awe at the coins as they passed beneath his little nose. He
supposed there must be enough of them to buy the Flobert Rifle.
The thought gave him a pleasant little shock. It had never occurred to
him that probably the Flobert Rifle had a price. It had seemed so
passionately to be desired as to belong to the category of the
inaccessible--like Mr. Orde's revolver on the top shelf of the closet,
or unlimited ice cream, or the curios locked behind the glass in Auntie
Kate's cabinet. Now the revelation almost stopped his heart.
"Perhaps it doesn't cost more'n a thousand dollars!" he said to himself.
And he had already made up his mind to save a thousand dollars for the
purpose of getting a boat. The boat idea lost attraction. His papa had
agreed to give half. Bobby lost himself in an exciting daydream
involving actual possession of the Flobert Rifle. He resolved that, on
the way home, if the curtains were not down, he would take another look
at the weapon.
The curtains were not down; but now, attached to the Flobert Rifle, was
a stencilled card. Bobby set himself to reading it.
"First Prize," he deciphered, "An-nual Trap Shoot, Monrovia Sportsman's
Club, Sep. 10, 1879."
For some moments the significance of this did not reach him. Then all at
once a sob caught in his throat. It had never occurred to poor little
Bobby that there might be other Flobert rifles in the world; and here
this one was withdrawn from circulation, as it were, to be won as prize
at the trap shooting.
Bobby did not recover from this shock until the following morning. Then
a bright idea struck him, an idea filled with comfort. The Rifle was not
necessarily lost, after all. He trudged down to the store, entered
boldly, and asked to examine the weapon.
"My papa's going to win it and give it to me," he announced.
A very brown-faced man with twinkling gray eyes turned from buying black
powder and felt wads to look at him amusedly.
"Hullo, Bobby," said he, "so your father's going to win the rifle and
give it to you, is he? Are you sure?"
"Of course," replied Bobby simply; "my papa can do anything he wants
to."
The man laughed.
"What do you know about rifles, and what would you do with one?" he
asked.
"I know all about them," replied Bobby with great positiveness, "and I
know where there's lots of squirrels."
The storekeeper had by now taken the Flobert from the show window. The
other man reached out his hand for it.
"Well, tell me about this one," he challenged.
"It's a Flobert," said Bobby without hesitation, "and it weighs five and
a half pounds; and its ri-fling has one turn in twenty-eight inches; and
it has a knife-blade front sight, and a bar rear sight; and it shoots 22
longs, 22 shorts, C B caps, and B B caps. Only B B caps aren't very good
for it," he added.
"Whew!" cried the man. "Here, take it!"
Bobby looked it over with delight and reverence. This was the first time
he had enjoyed it at close hand. The blue of the octagon barrel was like
satin; the polish of the stock like a mirror; the gold plating of the
most fancy lock and guards like the sheen of silk. Bobby loved, too, the
indescribable _gun_ smell of it--compounded probably of the odours of
steel, wood and oil. With some difficulty he lifted it to his face and
looked through the rather wobbly sights. Reluctantly he gave it back
into the storekeeper's hands.
"Would you mind, please," he asked, a little awed, "would you mind
letting me see a box of cartridges?"
Stafford smiled and reached to the shelf behind, from which he took a
small, square, delightful, red box. It had reading on it, and a portrait
of the little cartridges it contained. Bobby feasted his eyes in
silence.
"I--I know it's a prize," said he at last. "But--how much _was_ it?"
"Fifteen dollars," replied Mr. Bishop.
Bobby's eyes widened to their utmost capacity.
"Why--why--why!" he gasped; "I thought it must be a thousand."
Both men exploded in laughter, in the confusion of which, stunned,
surprised, delighted and excited with the thought of eventual ownership,
Bobby marched out the door, where he was joined gravely by Duke, his
beautiful feather tail waving slowly to and fro as he walked.
Later in the day Kincaid, the spare, brown man with the twinkling gray
eyes, met Mr. Orde on the street.
"Hullo, Orde!" he greeted. "Hear you have a sure win of the tournament."
"Sure win!" said Orde, puzzled, "What you talking about? You know I
couldn't shoot against you fellows."
"Well, your small boy told me you were going to win that rifle down at
Bishop's, and give it to him."
Orde's face clouded.
"He's been talking nothing but rifle for a month," said he. "I'm going
West in September. Wouldn't have any show against you fellows, anyway."
When Bobby heard this paralyzing piece of news, his entire scheme of
things seemed shattered. For a long time he sat staring with death in
his heart. Then he arose silently and disappeared.
In the Proper Place, among Bobby's other possessions, was a small toy
gun. Its stock was of pine, its lock of polished cast iron, and its
barrel of tin. The pulling of the trigger released a spring in the
barrel, which in turn projected a pebble or other missile a short and
harmless distance. Then a ramrod re-set the spring. When, the previous
Christmas, Bobby had acquired this weapon, he had been very proud of it.
Latterly, however, it had fallen into disfavour as offering too painful
a contrast to the real thing as exemplified 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,
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. A fairly large empty wooden box, for the reception of
exploded shells, marked the spot on which the shooters would stand. The
rotary trap lay in plain sight eighteen yards away. That completed the
list of arrangements, which were, in the light of modern methods, as
every trap shooter of to-day will recognize, exceedingly crude.
The men, however, supplied the interest which the equipment might lack.
At that time every trap-shot was also a field shot. The class which
confines itself to targets had not even been thought of. And good
picked-shots have in common everywhere certain qualities, probably
developed by the life in the open, and the unique influences of woodland
and upland hunting. They are generous, and large in spirit, and
absolutely democratic--the millionaire and the mechanic meet on equal
ground--and deliberate in humour, and dry of wit. The quiet chaffing,
tolerant, good-humoured, genuine intercourse of hunters cannot be
matched in any other class.
The components of this group had each served his apprenticeship in the
blinds or the cover. They knew each other in the freemasonry of the
Field; and when they met together, as now, they spoke from the gentle
magic of the open heart.
One exception must be made to this statement, however. Joseph Newmark,
in advance of his time, shot methodically and well at the trap, never
went afield, and maintained toward his neighbours an habitual dry
attitude of politeness.
Bobby seated himself on the ground and prepared to listen with the
completest enjoyment. These men were to him great or little according
as they shot well or ill. That was to him the sole criterion. It did not
matter to him that Mr. Heinzman controlled the largest interests in the
western part of the state--he "couldn't hit a balloon"; nor that young
Wellman was looked upon as worthless and a loafer--he was well up among
the first five.
Nearly everybody smoked something. The tobacco smelled good in the open
air.
"Well," remarked Kincaid, "if that Stafford party doesn't show up before
long, I'm going home. I can't stand you fellows without some excitement
for a counter-irritant."
"That's right, Kin," called somebody, "Better start that old Buzzard
toward town pretty soon, if you want to get in for breakfast--there's a
good moon!"
But at this moment a delivery wagon turned into the field, and drove
briskly to the spot. From it Mr. Stafford descended spryly.
"Sorry to be a little late, boys; just couldn't help it," he apologized.
His arrival galvanized the crowd into activity. From the delivery wagon
they unloaded boxes of shells, two camp stools and a number of barrels.
The driver then hitched his horses to the fence, and returned to act as
trap-puller.
One of the barrels was rolled out to the trap, opened, and its contents
carefully spilled on the ground. It contained a quantity of sawdust
and brown glass balls. These were about the size of a base-ball, had an
opening at the top, and were filled with feathers. John, the driver of
the delivery wagon, climbed down into a pit below the trap. He set the
spring of the trap and placed a glass ball in its receptacle at the end
of one of the two projecting arms. A long cord ran from the trap back to
the shooting stand.
Mr. Stafford opened a camp stool, sat down, and produced a long blank
book. In this he inscribed the men's names. Each gave him two dollars
and a half as an entrance fee. A referee and scorer were appointed from
among the half-dozen non-shooting spectators.
"Newmark to shoot; Heinzman on deck!" called the scorer in a
business-like voice.
The trapper ducked into his hole. Mr. Newmark thrust five loaded shells
into his side pocket, picked his gun from the rack and stepped forward
to the mark. Then he loaded one barrel of the gun and stood at ready.
In those days nobody thought of standing gun to shoulder, as is the
present custom. The rule was, "stock below elbow."
"Ready," said he in his dry incisive voice.
"Ready," repeated the trap puller at his elbow.
"Pull!" commanded Mr. Newmark abruptly.
Immediately the trap began to revolve rapidly; after a moment or so it
sprung, and the glass ball, projected violently upward, sailed away
through the air. The mechanism of the trap was such that no one could
tell precisely how long it would revolve before springing; nor in what
direction it would throw the target. Nevertheless the mark offered would
now, in comparison with our saucer-shaped target, be considered easy.
Mr. Newmark brought his gun to his shoulder and discharged it apparently
with one motion, before the ball had more than begun its flight. A roar
of the noisy black powder shook the air. The glass sphere seemed
actually to puff out in fine smoke. Only the feathers it had contained
floated down wind.
"Dead!" announced the referee in a brisk business-like voice.
Mr. Newmark broke his gun and flipped the empty yellow shell into the
box next him. A cloud of white powder smoke drifted down over the
group. Bobby snuffed it eagerly. He thought it the most delicious smell
in the world; and so continued to think it for many years until the
nitros displaced the old-fashioned compounds. Four times Mr. Newmark
repeated his initial performance; then stepped aside.
"Heinzman to shoot; Wellman on deck!" announced the scorer.
Mr. Heinzman was already at the mark; and young Wellman arose and began
to break open a box of shells. Mr. Newmark thrust his gun barrels into
one of the pails and with the hickory wiper pumped the water up and
down.
"He's a good snap-shot," Bobby heard a man tell a stranger, in a
half-voice.
"Has a brilliant style," commented the other.
They fell into a low-toned conversation on the partridge season, and the
ducks, to which Bobby listened with all his ears, the while his eyes
missed nothing of what took place before him. Nobody now spoke aloud.
The chaffing had ceased. Shooter's etiquette prohibited anything that
even by remote possibility might "rattle" the contestants. Only the
voices of the men at mark and the referee were heard, and the heavy
_bang_ of the black powder. Bobby liked to listen to the referee.
Reporting, as he did, hundreds of results in the course of the
afternoon, his intonation became mechanical.
"Dead!" he snapped in the crispest, shortest syllable, when the glass
ball was broken by the charge.
"Law-s-s-t!" he drawled when the little sphere sailed away unharmed.
Each shooter on finishing his first string of five, swabbed out his gun,
leaned it against the rack, and went to squat in the group where he
commented to his friends on his own or others' luck, but always quietly.
An air of the strictest business held the entire assembly.
This broke slightly when Mr. Kincaid's name was called. A stir went
through the crowd; and some one called out,
"Go it, Old Reliable. Have you had any hoops put around her lately?"
Mr. Kincaid grinned good-naturedly, but made no reply. He had discarded
his coat; and now wore a brown cardigan jacket. He took his place with
the greatest deliberation, consuming twice as much time as any one else.
"Ready," said he.
"Ready," replied the trapper mechanically.
"Pool!" cried Mr. Kincaid.
The discharge delayed so long that Bobby looked to see if a misfire had
occurred; but when the ball reached the exact top of its swing, Mr.
Kincaid broke it.
"One of the most reliable duck shots we have," said Bobby's neighbour to
the stranger. "He shoots just like that, always. Never in a hurry; but
he seems to get there. Kills a lot of game in the season."
The shoot progressed with almost the precision of a machine. Bobby
amused himself by closing his eyes to hear the regular _ready, pull,
bang!_ that marked the progress of the score. From his level with the
tops of the brown grasses of late summer he enjoyed the wandering puffs
of hot air, the drift of pungent aromatic powder smoke, the rapid
successive bending of the stalks as though fairies were running over
them when the breezelets passed. It was all very pleasant and, for the
time being, he forgot his disappointment.
The match was to be at one-hundred balls--sixty singles, and twenty
pairs of doubles. Early in the game the different shooters began roughly
to group themselves on the score-cards according to their ability. One
class, among whom were Newmark and Kincaid, continued to break their
targets with unvarying accuracy. Young Wellman by rights belonged with
these; but he had undershot a strong incomer; and the miss had cost him
two others before he could recover his temper. The second class had
missed from one to five each. The third class, typified by Mr. Heinzman,
had a long string of "goose-eggs" to their discredit.
The fiftieth bird, however, Mr. Kincaid missed. It flipped sideways from
the arm of the trap, and flew for twenty feet close to the ground. The
referee had actually started to call "no bird"; but Mr. Kincaid elected
to try for it; missed; and had to abide by his decision. At the close of
the singles, Newmark had a score of sixty straight; Kincaid fifty-nine;
and the others strung out variously in the rear.
At this point, a short recess was taken. The crowd of men lit fresh
cigars; talked out loud; circulated about; and relaxed generally from
the long strain. Some scattered out into the grass to help the trapper
to look for unbroken balls. Ordinarily Bobby loved to do this; but
to-day he sidled up to where his friend was stooping over the japanned
box. Bobby watched him a moment in silence, methodically laying away
the used brass shells, one up and one down in regular succession.
"It's too bad you got beat," he ventured timidly at last.
Mr. Kincaid ceased his occupation, removed his pipe from his mouth, and
looked up at Bobby searchingly.
"Youngster," he said kindly, "I'm not beat."
"You're behind," insisted Bobby, "and Newmark never misses."
Mr. Kincaid arose slowly, and without a word took Bobby by the arm and
led him around the tree. He stopped and raised Bobby's chin in his
gnarled brown hand until the little boy's eyes looked straight into his
own. Bobby noticed that the twinkle had--not disappeared--but drawn far
back into their gray depths, which had become unaccountably sober.
"Bobby," said Mr. Kincaid gravely, "always remember this, all your life,
no matter what happens to you; a man is never defeated until the very
last shot is fired."
He paused.
"And remember this, too: that even if he is defeated, he is not beaten,
provided he has done the very best he could, and has never lost heart."
He looked a moment longer into Bobby's eyes; and the little boy saw the
gray twinkle flickering back to the surface, and the crow's-feet
deepening good-naturedly.
"That's all, sonny," he said, and withdrew his hand from Bobby's chin.
"So you want to see me win the rifle, do you?" asked Mr. Kincaid, as
they turned away.
"Yes, sir," replied Bobby.
"Why?"
"Because you're a friend of mine," replied Bobby with simple dignity.
"And that's the very best reason in the world!" cried Mr. Kincaid
heartily.