"Dad," I said, "Mr. Wright wants to know how much those pop-guns are."
Dad stopped and looked at me and at the pop-gun, and then he began to get to his feet. Mr. Wright and Uncle Rob had gradually worked over to the office and were standing just outside of the door. "Yes," went on Dad, "a neck like that doesn't hinder the tone; but it won't hold,—the strings will always be running down." He was get ting toward the door, with the pop-gun in his hand, and his voice grew bigger and more emphatic as he came to the wind-up; "I tell you, Judge Shelby, a thing like that will never, never be a success!" He reached the door and finished his opinion at the same moment; and then he sort of waked up, and almost ran over Mr. Wright; and then his business smile suddenly came into his face, and he held out his hand.
"Good-morning, Mr. Pop-gun," he said.
And then Uncle Rob and I disgraced ourselves. I dived into the office, and Uncle Rob followed, and Dad looked after us with surprise and disapproval, and then turned to the old gentleman:—"I beg your pardon, I should have said Mr. Wright,"—and neither he nor Mr. Wright nor
