intervals a soft, random rustle swept through them. It was nearly
midday. The camp-fire was almost dead, quenched by the dazzling sunlight
which fell in patches on the camping-ground, and flooded the clearing
beyond the shadow of the pines.

Moreover, the camping-ground was deserted. Neither Uncle Eb nor Tiger
could be seen, though Dol's eyes sought for them wistfully. But
something caught his attention. It was a ray of light filtering through
the pine boughs and glinting on the trigger of an old-fashioned
muzzle-loading shot-gun, which leaned against a corner of the hut. An
ancient, glistening powder-horn and a coon-skin ammunition pouch hung
above it.

Dol lifted the antiquated weapon, withdrew to a short distance, and
examined it closely. He knew it belonged to the guide, but was rarely
used by him since he had purchased the 44-calibre Winchester rifle, with
which he could do uncommon feats in shooting.

The shot-gun interested the boy mightily. There was a facsimile of it,
swathed in green baize, stowed away somewhere in his father's house in
Manchester. The first time he had ever used fire-arms was on a memorable
day when his fingers pulled its trigger in his father's garden under
Neal's direction, and a lean starling fell before his shot. After that
he had often taken out a fowling-piece of a newer style, and had done
pretty well with it too.

As he handled the shot-gun, which the guide had bought away back in the
year '55, musing about it under the pines, the thought suddenly tumbled
out of a corner of his brain that at present there was a brilliant
opportunity for him to use the gun and all the shooting skill he