His gun tucked under his arm, Sam walked briskly; and as the Parker house happened to be on an edge of the town, it was but a very few minutes before he had open fields on either hand. Ahead of him was the low hill on which the Marlow farmhouse stood; and farther on were loftier wooded summits. In summer the scenery of the region was pleasantly picturesque, but on an overcast December day a stranger might have found the prospect somewhat dreary. Sam, cheered by the spirit of adventure, and the better for the exercise, began to shake off his sulkiness; and he was whistling almost blithely when, at a bend in the road, he saw two boys approaching. Physically, they were in marked contrast. One was tall and thin, with a peculiarly angular effect at elbows and knees; the other was short and plump, with a round, good-humored face. Both hailed Sam eagerly. “Hi there! Where are you going? What you doing with that artillery?” sang out the tall lad. “Don’t fire! I’ll surrender,” chuckled his companion. Sam halted. He brought his gun to parade rest. An onlooker might have suspected that he was not seeking secrecy regarding errand or armament in the case of these two friends. “Hullo, Step!” said he. “Same to you, Poke! And what am I doing? Oh, just looking around on the chance of bagging something.” The tall youth was carrying a package, wrapped in a newspaper. He laid it on the ground, and took the gun from Sam’s hands, balancing the weapon lovingly and finally raising it to his shoulder. “Gee, but what a daisy!” he exclaimed. “Whose is it? Yours?” “Oh, it isn’t exactly mine, Step, but I’m using it,” said Sam. Any boy could have told how Clarence Jones came by his nickname. “Step” was an abbreviation of “Step-ladder”; and undeniably Master Jones did bear a resemblance to that valuable, if not graceful, article of household equipment. “Here, let me take the shooting-iron!” the plump youth urged. His name was Arthur Green, but he was called “Poke,” because one so easily could dig a finger into his fat sides. Having placed the basket he had been carrying beside Step’s bundle, his hands were free to lay hold upon the gun. There was a little tussle, and Poke captured the prize. “My eyes! but this is a crackerjack!” was his comment. “Jiminy, but you’re the lucky chap, Sam! What are you after?” Sam did his best to appear blasé. “Oh, thought maybe I might get a shot at a buck.” The reception of the remark was not flattering. “You!” jeered Step; Poke laughed. “Why not?” Sam demanded, indignantly. “That’s ri-right; why not?” Poke was quivering with amusement. “All you’ve got to do is to hold the gun and pull the trigger; and if only a deer happens to walk in the way, the gun’ll do the rest.”