And Jack was the mild one of the family.
By the time he had succeeded in puncturing recklessly the
frying-pan, and also the battered pan in which Stanley no doubt
meant to wash his samples of soil, his good humor returned. So
also did the other boys, running in long leaps through the garden
and arriving at the spot very belligerent and very much out of
breath.
"Got to do something to pass away the time," Jack grinned,
bringing his front sight once more to bear upon the coffee--pot,
already badly dented and showing three black holes. "And I ain't
offering any violence to anybody. You can't hang a man, Mr.
Stanley, for shooting up a frying-pan. And I wouldn't--hurt--
you--for--anything!" He had just reloaded, so that his bullets
saw him to the end of the sentence.
Stanley watched his coffee-pot dance and roll like a thing in
pain, and swore when all was done. But he did not shoot, though
one could see how his fingers must itch for the feel of the
trigger.
"Your old dad will sweat blood for this--and you'll be packing
your blanket on your back and looking for work before snow
flies," was his way of summing up.
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