"My boy," exclaimed Mrs. Varley, as her son entered the cottage with a
bound, "why so hurried to-day? Deary me! where got you the grand gun?"
"Won it, mother!"
"Won it, my son?"
"Ay, won it, mother. Druve the nail _almost_, and would ha' druve it
_altogether_ had I bin more used to Joe Blunt's rifle."
Mrs. Varley's heart beat high, and her face flushed with pride as she
gazed at her son, who laid the rifle on the table for her inspection,
while he rattled off an animated and somewhat disjointed account of
the match.
"Deary me! now that was good, that was cliver. But what's that
scraping at the door?"
"Oh! that's Fan; I forgot her. Here! here! Fan! Come in, good dog," he
cried, rising and opening the door.
Fan entered and stopped short, evidently uncomfortable.
"My boy, what do ye with the major's dog?"
"Won her too, mother!"
"Won her, my son?"
"Ay, won her, and the pup too; see, here it is!" and he plucked Crusoe
from his bosom.
Crusoe having found his position to be one of great comfort had fallen
into a profound slumber, and on being thus unceremoniously awakened he
gave forth a yelp of discontent that brought Fan in a state of frantic
sympathy to his side.
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