drying.

From this night Yan went up and Guy went down in the old man's
opinion, for he spoke his own mind that day when he gave first place
to grit. He invited Yan to come to his shanty to see a pair of
snow-shoes he was making. The invitation was vague and general, so the
whole Tribe accepted. Yan had not been there since his first visit.
The first part of their call was as before. In answer to their knock
there was a loud baying from the Hound, then a voice ordering him
back. Caleb opened the door, but now said "Step in." If he was
displeased with the others coming he kept it to himself. While Yan
was looking at the snow-shoes Guy discovered something much more
interesting on the old man's bunk; that was the white revolver, now
cleaned up and in perfect order. Caleb's delight at its recovery,
though not very apparent, was boundless. He had not been able to buy
himself another, and this was as warmly welcomed back as though a
long-lost only child.

"Say, Caleb, let's try a shot. I bet I kin beat the hull gang,"
exclaimed Sapwood.

Caleb got some cartridges and pointed to a white blaze on a stump
forty yards away. Guy had three or four shots and Yan had the same
without hitting the stump. Then Caleb said, "Lemme show you."

His big rugged hand seemed to swallow up the little gun-stock. His
long knobbed finger fitted around the lock in a strange but familiar
way. Caleb was a bent-arm shot, and the short barrel looked like his
own forefinger pointing at the target as he pumped away six times in
quick succession. All went into the blaze and two into the charcoal
spot that marked the centre.

"By George! Look at that for shooting!" and the boys were loud in
their praise.

"Well, twenty year ago I used to be a pretty good shot," Caleb
proceeded to explain with an air of unnecessary humility and a very
genial expression on his face. "But that's dead easy. I'll show you
some real tricks."

Twenty-five feet away he set up three cartridges in a row, their caps
toward him, and exploded them in succession with three rapid shots.
Then he put the revolver in the side pocket of his coat, and
recklessly firing it without drawing, much less sighting or even
showing it, he peppered a white blaze at twenty yards. Finally he
looked around for an old fruit tin. Then he cocked the revolver,
laid it across his right hand next the thumb and the tin across the
fingers. He then threw them both in the air with a jerk that sent the
re