Farebrother was a bad third. After tramping about all the morning, they sat down on the edge of the woods to eat the luncheon with which Miss Jemima had provided them. While they were sitting on the ground, Tom was noticed to be eying Sir Archy's beautiful gun with an air of longing. Presently he spoke up diffidently, scratching his wool.
"Marse Archy—please, suh—ain' you gwi' lem me have one shot outen dat ar muskit o' yourn?"
Sir Archy's first impulse was to throw the gun at Tom's woolly head, but on reflection he merely scowled at him. Farebrother laughed.
"There, you rascal," he said, "you may take my gun, and don't blow your head off with it."
Sir Archy was paralyzed with astonishment—not so Tom, who dashed for the gun and disappeared in the underbrush with Rattler, the dean of the corps of pointers at Corbin Hall. In a little while a regular fusillade was heard, and in half an hour Tom appeared with a string of partridges on his shoulder, and a broad grin across his face.
"Thankee, thankee, marster," he said to
