“Thy hoam’s no plaice for thee to-day.” “No. But thy hoam is,” said John. “I want to see yon gun. I’m thinkin’ that’ll be a better sight for me nor all the heather in Lankysheer.” “For thee?” Mr. Barraclough was greatly surprised. “Nay, I doubt I was wise to mention my secret to thee.” “Art coming?” John was striding resolutely homewards. “Well, seeing I have mentioned it, I suppose there’s no partiklar harm in showing it. O’ course, tha’ canna’ use a gun?” “Can’t I? No, you’re reight there. I’m not much of a man, am I? As tha’ told me, I’ve gotten no spunk, but I’ve spunk enough now. It weren’t more than not seeing clear and tha’s cleared things up for me wonnerful.” “I have? How?” “Tha’ can shoot, if I canna’, Barraclough.” Which was disappointing to the spy, who thought things were going better than this. Still he could bide his time and “Aye, I can shoot,” he said. “I’ve been in militia.” “Then tha’ can teach me,” said John, to Mr. Barraclough’s relief. “I’ll be a quick learner.” “Well, as tha’s interested, I’ll show thee how a trigger’s pulled,” and Barraclough was, in fact, not intending to go further than that in musketry instruction. Hepplestall killed might, indeed, encourage the others, it might array the manufacturers solidly under Needham’s reactionary standard, but Barraclough read murder as going beyond his directions, and supposed that if Reuben were fired on and missed (as he would be by an amateur marksman), the demonstration of unrest at Hepplestall’s would have been satisfyingly made. He was, therefore, sparing in his tutorship when they had come into his room and handled the gun together. “We munna call the whole neighborhood about our ears by the sound of a shot,” he said. “No,” said John, “but if tha’ll lend me this, I’ll find a plaice for practicing up on moors.” “Lend thee my gun! Nay, lad, tha’s asking summat. It wenna do to carry that about in daylight.” “I’ll tak’ it to-neight, and bring un back to-morrow neight.” “To-neight? Tha’ canna’ practice in the dark.” “Maybe I’ll ha’ no need to practice. Maybe there’s justice and summat greater nor me to guide a bullet home. I can nobbut try and I’m bound to try to-neight--the neight o’ the day I buried her, the neight when I’m hot. I’m poor spirited and I know it, and I’m wrought up now. To-morrow I’ll be frit.” Barraclough balanced the gun in his hands. “I had my own ideas o’ this,” he said--the idea in particular, he might have added, had this been an occasion for candor, that such precipitancy was contrary to the best interests of an informer. Before an event occurred, a sagacious spy should have prophesied it and here was this ardent boy in so desperate a hurry for action that Barraclough was like to be cheated of the opportunity of proving to Needham that he was dutifully accessory before the fact.