It was loaded, but not
primed, and I emptied a little powder from the flask in the pan. At that
he grinned.
"You're a good boy, sonny," he said. "Do you reckon you could hit me if
you shot?"
"Yes," I said. But I knew I could scarcely hold the gun out straight
without a rest.
"And do you reckon I could hit you fust?" he asked. At that I laughed,
and he laughed.
"What's your name?"
I told him.
"Who do you love best in all the world?" said he.
It was a queer question. But I told him Polly Ann Ripley.
"Oh!" said he, after a pause. "And what's SHE like?"
"She's beautiful," I said; "she's been very kind to me. She took me home
with her from the settlements when I had no place to go. She's good."
"And a sharp tongue, I reckon," said he.
"When people need it," I answered.
"Oh!" said he. And presently, "She's very merry, I'll warrant."
"She used to be, but that's gone by," I said.
"Gone by!" said he, his voice falling, "is she sick?"
"No," said I, "she's not sick, she's sad."
"Sad?" said he. It was then I noticed that he had a cut across his
temple, red and barely healed. "Do you reckon your Polly Ann would give
me a little mite to eat?"
This time I jumped up, ran into the house, and got down some corn-pone
and a leg of turkey. For that was the rule of the border.
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