Under the Big Dipper

and go inside and take his time. And this same little fellow must have arranged it that Michael Sweeney, the best judge in the city of a damascened barrel, with the finest touch for adjusting the trigger, should just then be in the shop to wait on customers. For Michael, withal his watery eyes, could weigh powder with the skill of an assayer and discourse of guns as though they were his beloved children. Morton forgot where he was and who he was, so entranced was he. All he felt was that he was going away for a vacation—he was putting work away and going to play! The fairy had certainly enchanted him.

Outside on the avenue the horses in the brougham stamped in nervous impatience, switching their short tails in vain efforts to keep the flies away; the old coachman on the box had grown tired of flicking his whip and had dozed off in the warm shade. And all the time Morton was under Michael’s spell. Then the fairy,

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