There was interest displayed in the news that Peter Groche, after a night in the lock-up, had been released from custody; but it occurred to none of Sam’s chums to connect the circumstance with his adventures as a deer hunter. Groche, presented with his freedom, had walked off, mumbling and grumbling. The popular theory was that, sooner or later, he would try to “get even” with the Major, his old grudge being heightened by the recent episode. “Funny how the Major let up on him!” Poke ruminated. “Well, you never can tell what’ll happen. But I guess there must have been some weak spot, after all, in the case. If there wasn’t, the Major would have hung on like a bulldog.” “Gee, but I wouldn’t have him after me--not for a farm!” quoth Step. Sam held his peace. He might have shed fresh light upon the peculiarities of the old soldier, but the present time was not opportune. He had little share in the talk as the boys walked home together; and the mood of silence held him through dinner. Then his father proposed a stroll, and the boy accepted the invitation. On the top of a hill overlooking the town--not only a sightly place but also one ensuring freedom from interruption--father and son had their discussion calmly and deliberately. “Sam,” Mr. Parker began, “I’m not going to preach a sermon, but I’m going to take a text. You supplied it when you told me last night that you didn’t regard lack of direct prohibition as making a very good excuse for what you did. The trouble is, you reached that opinion after the fact. In the beginning, I dare say, it seemed quite reasonable to do the thing which wasn’t forbidden.” “Well, sir, I--I did it,” said Sam sheepishly. “Exactly! And, in doing it, you yielded to impulse.” “I sup-suppose so.” “You had no wish, no intention, to harm anybody,” Mr. Parker went on. “You desired to go hunting--I’ve felt the desire; I know what it is. Then there was my gun, fairly thrusting itself upon you--seemed that way, didn’t it?” “You’re telling it, sir, as if you’d stood in my shoes.” “Many a time! I’ve been a boy myself. Also I haven’t forgotten, Sam, the scrapes into which I fell. Some of them taught me a lesson--a lesson you’ll have to learn some day. But to get back to the gun. There it was, ready to your hand. You took it. You put a supply of cartridges in your pocket. Your mother was not at home. You were too impatient to await her return. So off you hurried, taking chances, but meaning no harm. You were very sure of yourself; you knew something about firearms; you were confident that you wouldn’t hurt yourself or anybody else. You thought you were extremely careful in the woods. Yet there you took another chance, still meaning no harm, but barely escaping homicide.” “I know that, sir.”