“Then you can go with us?” questioned Charley Dodge, quickly.

“I think so—–­mother said she would tell me for certain to-morrow.”

The small youth took the rifle handed to him and aiming carefully, pulled the trigger.

“The outer ring,” said Shep Reed.  “That’s not so bad but what it might be worse, Giant.”

“Oh, it might be worse!” answered the small youth, coolly.  “I might fire out of the window and kill somebody on the back street, or hit a duck in Rackson’s pond.  Here goes again.”

The second shot was a little better, and the third made the bell ring, much to the small youth’s delight.

“Hullo, you fellows!” came from the doorway, a lively boy of fourteen came in, curly hair dying and a cap set far back on his head.  “Been looking for you all over town for about sixteen hours.  Been shooting, eh?  I’ll bet a can of buttermilk against a shoestring that you all made outer rings.”

“Hullo, Whopper!” called the others.  “Come in and try your luck.”

“Can’t—–­I’m dead broke this morning,” answered Frank Dawson.  “I’ve got to wait a year or two till my next allowance comes in.”

“Here’s the money,” answered Charley Dodge, producing five cents.  “Now, Whopper, don’t make more than three bull’s-eyes.”

“I’m going to make twenty-’leven,” answered the boy called Whopper.  “Don’t you know that I once went into a gallery in the city and made one hundred bull’s-eyes in succession?  The proprietor fainted and didn’t get over it for two months.”

“Phew!  That’s the biggest whopper yet!” ejaculated Giant.  “Nothing like living up to your reputation.”

The boy who could tell big stories on all occasions took up the rifle and shot three times with care, and as a result placed three inner rings to his credit.

“That isn’t bad,” said Shep Reed.  “But Snap is the boss rifleman of this crowd.”

“Then we must make him the leader of our gun club,” put in Giant.  “What do you say, fellows?”

“That’s it!” cried the others.

“Have you fellows got a gun club?” came from the man who kept the shooting gallery, curiously.

“We’ve got something of that sort,” answered the newly declared leader.  “You see, we expect to go out on a hunting tour this fall and so we got together and called ourselves a gun club.”

“The Fairview Gun Club,” corrected Whopper.  “Nothing like giving a title that looks like something, as the French Count said when he called himself a duke.”

“Where is your club going?”

“Oh, just up in the mountains, back of Lake Cameron,” answered Snap.

“Is the hunting good there?”

“Pretty fair—–­so old Jed Sanborn says.”

“Well, I wish you luck.  You boys are good enough shots to bring down almost anything,” said the shooting gallery keeper.

“Come on up to our orchard and talk things over,” said Snap, as he led the way from the gallery, and in a moment more the boys were on the Street and making their way to Mr. Dodge’s apple orchard, a quarter of a mile from the center of the town.  The other boys knew as well as Snap that there were some fine fall pippins in the orchard, and, like all growing lads, each loved a good apple.