"I don't like the way the thing behaves," he said, as he stopped to
examine it; "father paid one hundred and twenty-five dollars for it, and
it was warranted the best. It's pretty hard to hit a deer a quarter of a
mile off, but I ought to have brought down that squirrel which was only
a hundred feet distant."
He turned the weapon over and over in his hand, looked down the barrel,
tried the hammer and trigger, carefully examined the wind-gauge and
vernier rear-sights, but could not see that anything was out of order.
"I'm afraid it was my fault," he said, with a sigh, "but it will never
do to let the boys know it. I'll insist that I struck the buck, though
I'm afraid I didn't."
After going a little ways he noticed he was walking over a path which
was not marked very distinctly; it was, in fact, the route which Mr.
Fred Fowler, the industrious dweller in the log cabin, had worn for
himself in going to and from his work.
"That's lucky," said the lad, "for it's much easier traveling over a
path like that than tramping among the trees, where you have to walk
twice as far as there is any need of--confound it!"
This impatient remark was caused by a protruding branch, which just then
caught Herbert under the chin and almost lifted him off his feet.
The boy was sensible enough to understand that his failure to display
any good marksmanship was due to his own want of practice rather than to
any fault of his piece.
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