“Yer see this here is one of them repeaters,” said Ira. “’Tain’t goin’ ter hurt yer. Yer see these here two cartridges I got in my pocket? They come outer the deer. They ain’t the same size, yer see? Two guns. The one I jes took out matches that there little one outer my pocket. This here big one came outer another gun—that ain’t no repeater. Now looka here, here’s what tells the story—the gol blamed little rascal of a double barrel prince! Looka here—feel on the end of that barrel. Powder. “Feel, mister, ’twon’t bite yer. Yer know what that means? That means yer a proud father. I wasn’t gone ter shake hands with yer, but gol blame it, I think I will! Feel it! Smell it! Powder, all right. That means your boy was—about—gol, that toy o’ his wasn’t six inches from that there deer when he shot it in the head.” He scrutinized and felt of something near the end of the barrel. “Blood even! See that; that’s a hair! I knowed I’d ketch the little rascal. _Mister, that boy o’ yours shot that animal ter put it outer its suffering._” There was a moment’s pause as they clustered about Ira where he stood near the library table squinting curiously at the end of the barrel and gingerly examining it with one finger. And only one sound broke the silence; that was when an almost inaudible “_oh_” of astonishment and admiration escaped from Doris. “It’s wonderful,” she said more clearly after a pause. “Be sure yer sins’ll find yer out, as the feller says,” drawled Ira. “If it hadn’t been for you——” Mrs. Martin began. “All right, mister,” Ira laughed, “yer don’t need ter be scared of her, she’s empty. The only thing’s goner do any damage now is me. I’m goner shoot up th’ Rotary Club. Now where’s this here meetin’ anyway? I’m a-goner look it over.” CHAPTER XXIX THE RALLY The assembly hall of the Bridgeboro High School presented a gala scene. The whole thing had come about unexpectedly; it had been an “inspiration” as Pee-wee would have said. The local newspaper at the instigation of several public-spirited individuals and organizations of town, had stirred up a festival spirit in the interest of the Boy Scouts which must have surprised the kindly gentlemen of the Rotary Club who had certainly never expected that the award they had offered would be made the occasion of a public rally. But Mrs. Gibson of the Woman’s Club had seen the opportunity for a “real Scout night,” and the giving of the coveted award had been hooked up with a well-planned rally. The Rotary Club was in it, the Woman’s Club was in it, the Campfire Girls were in it, the Y.M.C.A. was in it, and Pee-wee Harris was in it. He was not only in it, he was all over it. Most of the troops in the county had lately returned from their summer outings and they blew into Bridgeboro, tanned and enthusiastic. Not all troops had elected candidates for the great award, but all were interested. It was Scout Night in Bridgeboro.