that tip," he said cheerfully. "Let's have a look at that cannon
you're hiding under your apron. Where did yuh resurrect it? Out of
some old Indian grave?

"Mamma! It won't go off sudden and unexpected, will it? What kind uh
shells--oh, mamma!" He pushed his hat back off his forehead with a
gesture not left behind with his boyhood, held the object the length of
his long arm away and regarded it gravely.

It was an old, old "bull-dog" revolver, freckled with rust until it
bore a strong resemblance to certain noses which Miss Satterly looked
down upon daily. The cylinder was plugged with rolls of drab cotton
cloth, supposedly in imitation of real bullets. It was obviously
during the plugging process that Miss Satterly had been interrupted,
for a drab string hung limply from one hole. On the whole, the thing
did not look particularly formidable, and Weary's lips twitched.

"A tramp stopped here the other day, and--I was frightened a little,"
she was explaining, pink-cheeked. "So aunt Meeker found this up in the
loft and she thought it would do to--to bluff with."

Weary aimed carefully at a venturesome and highly inquisitive gopher
and pulled, with some effort, the rusted trigger. The gopher stood
upon his hind feet and chipped derisively.

"You see, it just insults him. Yuh could'nt scare a blind man with
it-- Look here! If yuh go pouting up your lips like that again,
something's going to happen 'em. There's a limit to what a man can
stand."