“If I’d had a gun then,” declared Abner, “I could have blowed the critter to thunder-and-gone.  But I’ll get him next time.  Let me have the gun, will you, Isaiah?  I know Shad’ll say it’s all right when you tell him.”

That shotgun was a precious arm.  It had been given to the Captain years before by the officers of a sinking schooner, whom Shadrach’s boat’s crew, led by Shadrach himself, had rescued at a big risk off the Great South School.  It had the Captain’s name, with an inscription and date, on a silver plate fastened to the stock.  Isaiah was not too willing to lend it, but chicken stealing is a capital offense in South Harniss, as it is in most rural communities, and the cat caught in the act is summarily executed.

So Mr. Chase went to the Captain’s room and returned with the gun.

“There you be, Ab,” he said.  “Hope you get the critter.”

“Oh, I’ll get him all right, don’t you fret.  Say, Isaiah—­er—­er—­” Mr. Bacheldor hesitated.  “Say,” he went on, “you couldn’t let me have two or three cartridges, could you?  I ain’t got none in the house.”

Isaiah looked more doubtful than ever, but he brought the cartridges.  After making sure, by inquiry and inspection, that they were loaded, the borrower started to go.

“Oh, I say, Ab,” Mr. Chase called after him; “know whose cat ’twas?”

Mr. Bacheldor did not appear to hear, so the question was repeated.  Abner answered without turning.

“I know,” he declared.  “I know all right,” and hurried on.  Isaiah looked after him and sniffed disdainfully.

“Anybody on earth but that feller,” he said, “would have been ashamed to beg cartridges after beggin’ the gun, but not Ab Bacheldor, no sir!  Wonder he didn’t want to borrer my Sunday hat to practice shootin’ at.”

Mary-’Gusta considered shooting a cat the height of cruelty and dreadfulness but she was aware of the universal condemnation of chicken stealing and kept her thought to herself.  Besides, she had her own wickedness to consider.

She walked slowly on across the field, bound nowhere in particular, thinking hard and feeling very wretched and miserable.  The pleasure of the next day, the day she had been anticipating, was spoiled already for her.  If she went to that picnic without making a full and free confession she knew she would feel as mean and miserable as she was feeling now.  And if she did confess, why then—­

Her meditations were interrupted in a startling manner.  She was midway of the field, upon the other side of which was a tumbledown stone wall, and a cluster of wild cherry trees and bayberry bushes marking the boundary of the Bacheldor land.  From behind the wall and bushes sounded the loud report of a gun; then the tramp of running feet and an excited shouting: 

“You missed him,” screamed a voice.  “You never hit him at all.  There he goes!  There he goes!  Give him t’other barrel quick!”