Perhaps it doesn't cost more'n a thousand dollars

"Perhaps it doesn't cost more'n a thousand dollars!" he said to himself. And he had already made up his mind to save a thousand dollars for the purpose of getting a boat. The boat idea lost attraction. His papa had agreed to give half. Bobby lost himself in an exciting daydream involving actual possession of the Flobert Rifle. He resolved that, on the way home, if the curtains were not down, he would take another look at the weapon.
The curtains were not down; but now, attached to the Flobert Rifle, was a stencilled card. Bobby set himself to reading it.
"First Prize," he deciphered, "An-nual Trap Shoot, Monrovia Sportsman's Club, Sep. 10, 1879."
For some moments the significance of this did not reach him. Then all at once a sob caught in his throat. It had never occurred to poor little Bobby that there might be other Flobert rifles in the world; and here this one was withdrawn from circulation, as it were, to be won as prize at the trap shooting.
Bobby did not recover from this shock until the following morning. Then a bright idea struck him, an idea filled with comfort. The Rifle was not necessarily lost, after all. He trudged down to the store, entered boldly, and asked to examine the weapon.
"My papa's going to win it and give it to me," he announced.
A very brown-faced man with twinkling gray eyes turned from buying black powder and felt wads to look at him amusedly.
"Hullo, Bobby," said he, "so your father's going to win the rifle and give it to you, is he? Are you sure?"
"Of course," replied Bobby simply; "my papa can do anything he wants to."
The man laughed.
"What do you know about rifles, and what would you do with one?" he asked.
"I know all about them," replied Bobby with great positiveness, "and I know where there's lots of squirrels."
The storekeeper had by now taken the Flobert from the show window. The other man reached out his hand for it.
"Well, tell me about this one," he challenged.
"It's a Flobert," said Bobby without hesitation, "and it weighs five and a half pounds; and its ri-fling has one turn in twenty-eight inches; and it has a knife-blade front sight, and a bar rear sight; and it shoots 22 longs, 22 shorts, C B caps, and B B caps. Only B B caps aren't very good for it," he added.
"Whew!" cried the man. "Here, take it!"
Bobby looked it over with delight and reverence. This was the first time he had enjoyed it at close hand. The blue of the octagon barrel was like satin; the polish of the stock like a mirror; the gold plating of the most fancy lock and guards like the sheen of silk. Bobby loved, too, the indescribable _gun_ smell of it--compounded probably of the odours of steel, wood and oil. With some difficulty he lifted it to his face and looked through the rather wobbly sights. Reluctantly he gave it back into the storekeeper's hands.
"Would you mind, please," he asked, a little awed, "would you mind letting me see a box of cartridges?"
Stafford smiled and reached to the shelf behind, from which he took a small, square, delightful, red box. It had reading on it, and a portrait of the little cartridges it contained. Bobby feasted his eyes in silence.