Adventures of Bobby Orde Read online

  VIII

  THE FLOBERT RIFLE

  Thus Bobby had passed through the extremes of hope, of anticipation, ofdisappointment and of despair. The Flobert Rifle on which he had set hisheart, which he had firmly made up his mind to buy as soon as he couldsave up enough on an allowance of one cent a day, had been withdrawnfrom sale and offered as prize for the fall trap shooting. This had beena severe blow, but from it Bobby had finally rallied. His father wouldparticipate in the shoot; his father was omnipotent and invincible.After winning the Flobert Rifle, he would undoubtedly give it to Bobby.Then, just before the shoot Mr. Orde had been called west on business.Bobby had been vouchsafed only the melancholy satisfaction of seeing Mr.Kincaid, whom he liked, win out over Mr. Newmark, whom he disliked. Therifle was in good hands; that was all any one could say about it.

  But one afternoon, returning home about two o'clock, he was surprisedto find Bucephalus and the yellow cart hitched out in front, and Mr.Kincaid sitting on the porch steps.

  "No one home but the girl; so I thought I'd wait," he explained, shakinghands with Bobby very gravely. "I brought around the new rifle," headded further. "What do you say to driving up over the hill somewhereand trying her?"

  They drove slowly up the road of planks that gave footing over thesand-hills. The new shiny Flobert Rifle with its gold-plated locks andtrigger guards rested between Mr. Kincaid's knees. He would not permitBobby to touch it, however.

  When the old white horse had struggled over the grade and into thestump-dotted country, Mr. Kincaid hitched him to the fence, and,followed closely by the excited Bobby, climbed into a field. From hispocket, quite deliberately, he produced a small paper target and a dozentacks wrapped in a bit of paper.

  "We'll just nail her up against this big stub," he said to Bobby,tacking away with the handle of his heavy pocket-knife; "and then youcan get a rest over that little fellow there."

  He stepped back.

  "Now let's see you open her," he said, handing over the rifle.

  Bobby had long since acquired a theoretical familiarity with themechanism. He cocked the arm and pulled back the breech block, thusopening the breech with its broken effect due to the springing of theejector.

  "That's all right," approved Mr. Kincaid, pausing in the filling of hispipe, "but you have the muzzle pointing straight at Duke."

  "It isn't loaded," objected Bobby.

  "A man who knows how to handle a gun," said Mr. Kincaid emphasizing hiswords impressively with the stem of his pipe, "never in anycircumstances lets the muzzle of his gun, loaded or unloaded, for even asingle instant, point toward any living creature he does not wish tokill. Remember that, Bobby. When you've learned that, you've learned agood half of gun-handling."

  "Yes, sir," said Bobby.

  "Keep the muzzle up," finished Mr. Kincaid, "and then you're all right."

  He led the way to the smaller stump; and nonchalantly, as though it werenot one of the most wonderful affairs in the world to own such a thing,produced a little square red box containing the cartridges. This heopened. Bobby gazed with the keenest pleasure on the orderly rows ofalternate copper and lead dots.

  "Now," said Mr. Kincaid, "kneel down behind the stump." He rested therifle across it. "You know how to sight, don't you? I thought likely.When you pull the trigger, try to pull it steadily, without jerking. Getin here, Duke!"

  Bobby knelt, and assumed a position to shoot. To his surprise he foundthat his heart was beating very fast, and that his breath came and wentas rapidly as though he had just climbed a hill. He tried desperately tohold the front sight in the notch of the hind sight, and both on theblack bull's eye. It was surprisingly difficult, considering thesimplicity of the theory. Finally he pulled the trigger for the firsttime in his life.

  "Snap!" said the rifle.

  "Now let's see where you hit!" suggested Mr. Kincaid.

  Bobby started up eagerly; remembered; and with great care laid theFlobert, muzzle up, against the stump.

  "That's right," approved Mr. Kincaid.

  The bullet had penetrated the exact centre of the bull's eye!

  "My!" cried Bobby delighted. "That was a pretty good shot, wasn't it,Mr. Kincaid? That was doing pretty well for the first time, wasn't it?"

  But Mr. Kincaid was lighting his pipe, and seemed quite unimpressed.

  "Bullet went straight (_puff, puff_)," said he. "That's all you can say(_puff, puff_). No _one_ shot's a good shot (_puff, puff_). Take's twoto prove it (_puff, puff_)."

  He straightened his head and threw the match away.

  "It's too good, Bobby, to be anything but an accident," said he kindly."Now come and try again."

  Bobby was permitted to fire nine more shots, of which three hit thepaper, and none came near the bull's eye. He could not understand this;for with the dead rest across the stump, he thought he was holding thesights against the black. Mr. Kincaid watched him amusedly. The smallfigure crouched over the stump was so ridiculously in earnest. At thetenth shot he put the cover on the box of ammunition.

  "Aren't we going to shoot any more?" cried Bobby, disappointed.

  "Enough's enough," said Mr. Kincaid. "Ten shots is practice. More'sjust fooling--at first, anyway. You can't expect to become a good shotin an afternoon. If you could, why, where's the glory of being a goodshot?"

  "I don't see what made me miss," speculated Bobby.

  "I think I could tell you," replied Mr. Kincaid, "but I'm not going to.You think it over; and next time see if you can tell me. That's the wayto learn."

  "Next time!" cried Bobby, his interest reviving.

  "You aren't tired of it, are you?" enquired Mr. Kincaid with mockanxiety. "Because I've got ninety cartridges left here that I wouldn'tknow what to do with."

  "Oh!" cried Bobby.

  "Well, then," proposed Mr. Kincaid, "I'll tell you what we'll do. Youand I will organize the--well, the Maple County Sportsman's Association,say; and we'll hold weekly shoots. These will be the grounds. You and Iwill be the charter members; but we'll let in others, if we happen towant to."

  "Papa," breathed Bobby.

  "Moved and seconded that Mr. John Orde, alias Papa, be elected. Motioncarried," said Mr. Kincaid. "I'll be President," he continued. "I'vealways wanted to be president of something; and you can be secretary.You must get a little blank book, and rule it off for the scores. Thenmaybe by and by we'll have a prize, or something. What do you think?"

  Bobby said what he thought.

  "Now," said Mr. Kincaid, opening the wooden box that ran along the floorof the two-wheeled cart where the dashboard, had there been one, wouldhave been placed, "this is the next thing: when you're through shooting,clean the gun. If you leave it over night, the powder dirt will make afine rust that you may never be able to get out; and rust will eat intothe rifling and make the gun inaccurate. No matter how late it is, orhow tired you are, _always clean your gun_ before you go to bed. It'sthe second most important thing I can teach you. You'll see lots of menwho can kill game, perhaps, but remember this; the fellow who lets hisgun point toward no living thing but his game, and who keeps it brightand clean, is further along toward being a true sportsman--even if he isa 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 riflinggrooves in the barrel.

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

  Bucephalus came to with reluctance. Going down hill he settled into aslow 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 scorebook."

  "When will it be?" asked Bobby.

  "Oh, Thursday again," replied Mr. Kincaid. He disengaged the Flobertfrom between his knees. "Here," said he; "you take this and put it awaycarefully. I'll keep the ammun
ition," 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 oldwhite horse jogging sleepily, the old yellow cart lurching. Over hisshoulder 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 octagonbarrel bore an inscription which he deciphered--the maker's name, andthe patents under which the arm was manufactured. He examined thesights, and how they were fastened to the barrel; the fall of thehammer; the firing-pin; the mechanism of the ejector, the butt plate,the polished stock and the manner in which it was attached to thebarrel. Over the fancy scroll of the gold-plated trigger-guard he passedhis fingers lovingly. The trigger-guard extended back along the grip ofthe stock in a long thin metal strip--also gold-plated. It, too, bore aninscription. Bobby read it once without taking in its meaning; a secondtime with growing excitement. Then he rushed madly through the houseshrieking for his mother.

  "Mamma, Mamma!" he cried. "Where are you? Come here!"

  Mrs. Orde came--on the run--likewise the cook, and the butcher. Theyfound Bobby dancing wildly around and around, hugging close to his heartthe Flobert rifle.

  "Bobby, Bobby!" cried Mrs. Orde. "What is it? What's the matter? Are youhurt?"

  She caught sight of the gun, leaped to the conclusion that Bobby hadshot himself and sank limply into a chair.

  "See! Look here!" cried Bobby. He thrust the rifle, bottom up into herlap. "Read it!"

  On the plate behind the trigger-guard, carved in flowing script, werethese words.

  _To Robert Orde from Arthur Kincaid. September 10, 1879._