“Grathious thakes!” he lisped excitedly, as he came up to the path. “I was never tho dithurbed in all my life. I give you my word I thought ith wath a deer, or I thould never have fired in thith world.” Brad looked at him contemptuously. “I should think any fool would know the difference between a deer and five men!” he snapped. “Besides, there aren’t any deer around here; and if there were, how in thunder did you expect to hit one with that gun?” The stranger’s eyes widened with surprise. “You don’t thay tho!” he exclaimed in a distressed tone. “Why, I thought there were deer all over.” “Did you expect to kill one with a sixteen-gauge shotgun?” Dick asked, a twinkle in his eyes. The hunter looked puzzled. “What’th the matter with it?” he asked. “Theemth to me the bulletth are big enough to kill anything.” Fitzgerald shrieked with laughter. “Bullets!” he cried hysterically. “He don’t know the difference between shells and bullets!” Merriwell and Baxter smiled broadly. In spite of his anger, the Texan could not repress a grin. Even Lysander Cobmore chuckled dryly. The stranger glanced from one laughing face to another, and then drew himself up with a comical expression of dignity. “I can’t thay I thee the point,” he remarked stiffly. “Thomthing theems to thrike you gentlemen ath very funny.” Fitz looked at his face and went off into another peal of laughter. “Do you really mean to say you thought the shells you put into your gun consisted of a single bullet?” Dick asked quietly. “Why, I thuppothed tho,” the small man answered shortly. “I don’t know that I thought much about it.” He rested one hand over the barrel of his gun as if it were a walking stick. “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” Merriwell said quickly. “That gun’s loaded, isn’t it?” “Why, no. I jutht thot it off.” “Didn’t you have two shells in it?” Dick asked. The stranger suddenly snatched his hand away with a look of horror. “Bah Jove!” he cried excitedly. “You’re wight about that. Mercy thakes! I might have thot a hole wight through my hand.” The thought of his narrow escape seemed to trouble him considerably more than anything which had yet occurred. Dick reached forward, and, picking up the gun, broke it and extracted the shell. “That’s the safest way,” he said quietly. “It’s much better not to walk through the woods with your gun loaded.” Holding the shell in his hand, he took out a knife and slit the pasteboard across, exposing the contents. “There’s what’s inside of it,” he explained, handing it to the stranger. The latter took it gingerly and inspected it with much curiosity. “Well, well,” he commented. “Tho thatth what it ith. A lot of little bulletth. Quite a cute idea, ithn’t it? Giveth a chap more chance to hit thomething, I thuppothe.” Fitzgerald threatening another outburst, Dick abruptly changed the subject. “Are you stopping near here, Mr. ——” He paused significantly.