As usual, he found the heavily bearded, long-haired, keen-eyed old man
sitting on a bench before his cabin, and at the minute gazing down the
long barrel of a shot-gun which he had just been cleaning. "Hello,
uncle!" was Morton's greeting.

Every man is an "uncle" in Killamet, unless he is a "cap'n," or a
"squire."

"Hello!" said Adam, lowering his gun. "Oh! it's you, sonny? Come up and
have a seat," sweeping together the empty gun-shells, bits of rag and
wadding, small tools, etc., at his side. "How's your folks?"

"All right," remembering with a sudden sense of pleasure the money for
baby's milk safe in his pocket. "Been gunning lately?"

"Waal, some, a brace or two o' brants; jest hand me them pincers, Mort.
Why? Want to buy?"

"No; I want to shoot."

"Hey? You! He, he!"

"I killed one this morning, Uncle Adam."

"Whar'd ye get yer gun?"

"Didn't have none."

"Hey? Little boys shouldn't tell squibs."