"You mistook me for someone?" I asked finally.

"Yes," said Mr. Aiken, and slapped his pipe against the palm of his hand.
"You've been shootin' up, you have, since I set eyes on you."

He paused, seemingly struck by a genial inspiration.

"Yes, shootin' up." Still looking at me he gave way to a hoarse chuckle.

"Why, boy, we've all been doing some shootin'--you, your dad, and me
too--since we seen you last," and he was taken by a paroxysm of
silent mirth.

"Now that's what I call wit!" he gasped complacently, and then he
repeated in joyous encore:

"You shootin'--me shootin'--he shootin'."

"You weren't shooting at anybody?" I asked with casual innocence.

"And why shouldn't we be, I want to know?" he demanded, but his tongue
showed no sign of slipping. His glance had resumed its old stolid
watchfulness, which caused me to remain tactfully silent.

"But we wasn't shootin' at anybody," Mr. Aiken concluded, more genially.
"Not at anybody, just at selected folks."

He stopped to glance serenely about him, and somehow the dusty road, the
river, the trees and the soft sunlight seemed to make him strangely
confiding. His harsh voice lowered in gentle patronage.