Pegloe," answered Carrington, as he followed
the judge, who, with Mahaffy and the boy, had moved off.
"Better stop at Boggs'!" Pegloe called after them.
But the judge had already formed his decision.
Horse-racing and shooting-matches were suggestive of that
progressive spirit, the absence of which he had so much lamented
at the jail raising at Pleasantville--Memphis was their objective
point, but Boggs' became a side issue of importance. They had
gained the edge of the village when Carrington overtook them. He
stepped to Hannibal's side.
"Here, let me carry that long rifle, son!" he said. Hannibal
looked up into his face, and yielded the piece without a word.
Carrington balanced it on his big, muscular palm. "I reckon it
can shoot--these old guns are hard to beat!" he observed.
"She's the clostest shooting rifle I ever sighted," said Hannibal
promptly. "You had ought to see the judge shoot her--my! he
never misses!"
Carrington laughed.
"The clostest shooting rifle you ever sighted--eh?" he repeated.
"Why, aren't you afraid of it?"
"No," said Hannibal scornfully. "But she kicks you some if you
don't hold her right."
There was a rusty name-plate on the stock of the old sporting
rifle; this had caught Carrington's eye.
"What's the name here? Oh, Turberville."
The judge, a step or two in advance, wheeled in his tracks with a
startling suddenness.
"What?" he faltered, and his face was ashen.
"Nothing, I was reading the name here; it is yours; sir, I
suppose?" said Carrington.
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