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The Adventures of Bobby Orde, a novel by Stewart Edward White |
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Chapter 27. The Sportsman |
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_ CHAPTER XXVII. THE SPORTSMAN He opened the door and entered very quietly, so that neither occupant of the room saw him before he spoke. "I heard what you said--through the register----" he explained. "But I can't take the shotgun." Both men turned and looked at him curiously, the first natural exclamations stilled on their lips by the sight of his straight, earnest little figure facing them. "Why not, Bobby?" asked Mr. Orde at last. "I was the one who fired that shot that hit Mr. Laughton's head. I did it a-purpose." "What for?" "I saw something brown in the brush, and I was sure it was a partridge, so I shot at it. I really didn't know it was a partridge. It just looked brown. You told me not to do that, lots of times, but I got all excited, and forgot. So you see I'm not careful, like you said. I ought not to have any shotgun." "Oh, Bobby!" said Mr. Kincaid. "And that's one of the most important things of all!" "I know, sir," said Bobby. "That's why I thought I'd tell you." The two men examined the youngster for some time in silence. A very tender look lurked back in their eyes. "What did you do then?" asked Mr. Orde at last. "I saw the cap fly up in the air, and ran." "Yes?" "And then after a little I saw Mr. Kincaid come out down below, and I thought it was all right until I got home." "Why did you jump up in court this afternoon?" "I knew where I was standing, and I saw a scar on Laughton's head, and then I knew if the holes in the cap were low down, he must have been the man." "Why didn't you tell all this before?" "I'd never seen the cap; and I thought Mr. Kincaid had done it. I wasn't going to give him away." Both men burst into laughter. "And you thought I'd kill a man!" reproached Mr. Kincaid at last. "I'd have done it--to old Pritchard," maintained Bobby stoutly. After a time Mr. Kincaid returned to the first subject. "There is no doubt, Bobby," said he, "that a man careless enough to shoot at anything without knowing what it is--especially in a settled country--is not fit to have a gun of any kind. There are plenty of people killed every year through just such carelessness. On that ground you are quite right in saying that you do not deserve the new shotgun." "Yes, sir," said Bobby. "But you will never do anything like that again. You have learned your lesson. And you told the truth. That is a great thing. It is easy to cover up a mistake; but very hard to show it when you don't have to. I was a little disappointed that you forgot about shooting at things; but I am more than proud that you remembered to be a sportsman. With your father's permission, I'm going to get you that shotgun, just the same. We'll go down together in the morning to get it." At the end of ten minutes more, Bobby returned to his room. He looked about it as one looks on a half-remembered spot visited long ago. The place seemed smaller; the toys trivial. A deep gulf had been passed since he had left the room a half-hour before. To his eyes had opened a new vision. Little Boyhood had fallen away from him as a garment. A touch had loosed. All experience and observation had led the way; but it was only in expectation of the supreme test of self-sacrifice. Character changes radically only under that test. Bobby had borne it well; and now stood at the threshold of his Youth. He picked up the Flobert rifle and looked it over. "It'll always be handy to fool with," said he to Johnny. That youngster looked up with sardonic humour. "Gee, you're gettin' swelled head with your new gun," said he. [THE END] _ |
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