"You fetch out his plunder, Mr. John," he
added in a lower tone.
"Do it now, please," the child cried, slipping off the bench.
"I was expectin' fo' to hear you name me Uncle Bob, sonny; my
little nevvies get almost anything they want out of me when they
call me that-a-ways."
"Please, Uncle Bob, make it go bang!"
"You come along, then," and Mr. Yancy moved off in the direction
of his mule, the child following. "Powder's what we want fo' to
make this old spo'tiu' rifle talk up, and I reckon we'll find
some in a horn flask in the bottom of my cart." His expectations
in this particular were realized, and he loaded the rifle with a
small blank charge. 'Now," he said, shaking the powder into the
pan by a succession of smart taps on the breech, "sometimes these
old pieces go off and sometimes they don't; it depends on the
flint, but you stand back of your Uncle Bob, sonny, and keep yo'
fingers out of yo' ears, and when you say--bang!-- off she goes."
There was a moment of delightful expectancy, and then--
"Bang!" cried the child, and on the instant the rifle cracked.
"Do it againQ Please, Uncle Bob!" he cried, wild with delight.
"Now if you was to help yo' Uncle Bob hook up that old mule of
hisn and ride home with him, fo' he's going pretty shortly, you
and Uncle Bob could do right much shootin' with this old rifle."
Mr. Crenshaw had appeared with a bundle, which he tossed into the
cart. Yancy turned to him. "If you meet any inquiring friends,
Mr.
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