"A man who knows how to handle a gun," said Mr. Kincaid emphasizing his words impressively with the stem of his pipe, "never in any circumstances lets the muzzle of his gun, loaded or unloaded, for even a single instant, point toward any living creature he does not wish to kill. Remember that, Bobby. When you've learned that, you've learned a good half of gun-handling." "Yes, sir," said Bobby. "Keep the muzzle up," finished Mr. Kincaid, "and then you're all right." He led the way to the smaller stump; and nonchalantly, as though it were not one of the most wonderful affairs in the world to own such a thing, produced a little square red box containing the cartridges. This he opened. Bobby gazed with the keenest pleasure on the orderly rows of alternate copper and lead dots. "Now," said Mr. Kincaid, "kneel down behind the stump." He rested the rifle across it. "You know how to sight, don't you? I thought likely. When you pull the trigger, try to pull it steadily, without jerking. Get in here, Duke!" Bobby knelt, and assumed a position to shoot. To his surprise he found that his heart was beating very fast, and that his breath came and went as rapidly as though he had just climbed a hill. He tried desperately to hold the front sight in the notch of the hind sight, and both on the black bull's eye. It was surprisingly difficult, considering the simplicity of the theory. Finally he pulled the trigger for the first time in his life. "Snap!" said the rifle. "Now let's see where you hit!" suggested Mr. Kincaid. Bobby started up eagerly; remembered; and with great care laid the Flobert, muzzle up, against the stump. "That's right," approved Mr. Kincaid. The bullet had penetrated the exact centre of the bull's eye! "My!" cried Bobby delighted. "That was a pretty good shot, wasn't it, Mr. Kincaid? That was doing pretty well for the first time, wasn't it?" But Mr. Kincaid was lighting his pipe, and seemed quite unimpressed. "Bullet went straight (_puff, puff_)," said he. "That's all you can say (_puff, puff_). No _one_ shot's a good shot (_puff, puff_). Take's two to prove it (_puff, puff_)." He straightened his head and threw the match away. "It's too good, Bobby, to be anything but an accident," said he kindly. "Now come and try again." Bobby was permitted to fire nine more shots, of which three hit the paper, and none came near the bull's eye. He could not understand this; for with the dead rest across the stump, he thought he was holding the sights against the black. Mr. Kincaid watched him amusedly. The small figure crouched over the stump was so ridiculously in earnest. At the tenth shot he put the cover on the box of ammunition. "Aren't we going to shoot any more?" cried Bobby, disappointed. "Enough's enough," said Mr. Kincaid. "Ten shots is practice. More's just fooling--at first, anyway. You can't expect to become a good shot in an afternoon. If you could, why, where's the glory of being a good shot?"