"Why, Mat, old boy!" he said soothingly, "you look a little out of
sorts. What's wrong?"
Mat scoured away at the barrel of the gun harder than ever, and gave no
answer.
"What, in the name of wonder, can you be scouring your rifle for
to-night?" continued young Thorpe. "You have never yet touched it since
you brought it into the house. What can you possibly want with it now?
We don't shoot birds in England with rifle bullets."
"A rifle bullet will do for _my_ game, if I put it up," said Mat,
suddenly and fiercely fixing his eyes on Zack.
"What game does he mean?" thought young Thorpe. "He's been drinking
himself pretty nearly drunk. Can anything have happened to him since we
parted company at the theater?--I should like to find out; but he's
such an old savage when the brandy's in his head, that I don't half
like to question him--"
Here Zack's reflections were interrupted by the voice of his eccentric
friend.
"Did you ever meet with a man of the name of Carr?" asked Mat. He
looked away from young Thorpe, keeping his eyes steadily on the rifle,
and rubbing hard at the barrel, as he put this question.
"No," said Zack. "Not that I can remember."
Mat left off cleaning the gun, and began to fumble awkwardly in one of
his pockets.
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