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."
"I'm not squibbing; I 'honked' to it from behind some rocks, and then
knocked it over with a stone."
"Ye did? Waal, purty good! purty good! Goin' to hev it fer dinner, I
s'pose?"
"N--no, I sold it to Mrs. Norris."
"Did, hey? What'd she giv ye?"
Morton told him, and the old man ruminated a while, as he industriously
cleaned, primed, and loaded his gun, while Morton waited, watching a
long, plume-like line of smoke along the distant horizon, which he knew
was from a Portland steamer. Finally Adam set down the gun with a
contented air, and observed,--
"Haow airly kin ye git up?"
"At three, if you say so.
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