“Wouldn’ yer now, huh?” persisted Ira. “I seed ’im readin’ ’baout them hunters in Africa droppin’ lions an’ tigers an’ what all. I bet ye’d like to get _one—good—plunk_ at a wildcat now, wouldn’ yer? _Kerplunk_, jes like that, hey? Then ye’d feel like a reg’lar Teddy Roosevelt, huh?” Ira accompanied this intentionally tempting banter with a demonstration of aiming and firing. Westy laughed. “I wouldn’t mind being like Roosevelt,” he said. “Yer couldn’ drop an elephant at six yards,” laughed Ira. “Well, I guess I won’t meet any elephants in the woods between here and Chandler,” Westy said. “Don’t you put no sech ideas in his head,” said Aunt Mira, as she embraced her nephew affectionately. Then he was gone. “I don’t see why you want ter be always pesterin’ the poor boy,” complained Aunt Mira, as Ira lowered his lanky legs to the ground preparatory to standing on them. He _had_ been a sort of evil genius all summer, beguiling Westy with enticing pictures of all sorts of perilous exploits out of his own abounding experiences on land and sea. “You’d like to’ve had him runnin’ away to sea with your yarns of whalin’ and shipwrecks,” Aunt Mira continued. “And it’s jes a parcel of lies, Ira Hasbrook, and you know it as well as I do. Like enough he’ll shoot at a woodchuck or a skunk and kill one of Atwood’s cows. They’re always gettin’ into the woods.” “No, he won’t neither,” said her husband. “I say like enough he might,” persisted Aunt Mira. “Weren’t he crazy ’baout that book?” “I didn’ write the book,” drawled Ira. “No, but you told him how to skin a bear.” “That’s better’n bein’ a book agent and skinnin’ a farmer,” drawled Ira. “It’s ’baout the only thing you didn’t tell him you was,” Aunt Mira retorted. Acknowledging which, Ira puffed at his pipe leisurely and contemplated Aunt Mira with a whimsical air. “I meant jes what I said, Ira Hasbrook,” said she. “The kid’s all right,” said Ira. “He couldn’ hit nuthin further’n ten feet. But he’s all right jes the same. We’re goin’ ter miss him, huh, Auntie?” But they did not miss him for long, for they were destined to see him again before the day was over. CHAPTER IV THE SUFFERER In truth, if this were a narrative of Ira Hasbrook’s adventures, it might be thought lively reading of the dime novel variety. He had not, as he had confided to Westy, limited his killing exploits to swatting flies. He was one of those universal characters who have a way of drifting finally to farms. And he had not abridged his tales of sprightly adventure in imparting them to Westy. He had been to sea on a New Bedford whaler. He had shot big game in the Rockies. He had lived on a ranch. His star performance had been a liberal participation in the kidnapping of a despotic king in a small South Sea island.