The matchlock, for as
such it was intended, was nearly finished when our hopes were dashed to
the ground by a piece of unnatural cunning. One morning the breechpiece
that screwed in was missing. This was fatal. A barrel without a
breechpiece is like a cup without a bottom. It was all over.
There are days in spring when the white clouds go swiftly past, with
occasional breaks of bright sunshine lighting up a spot in the
landscape. That is like the memory of one's youth. There is a long dull
blank, and then a brilliant streak of recollection. Doubtless it was a
year or two afterwards when, seeing that the natural instinct could not
be suppressed but had better be recognised, they produced a real gun
(single-barrel) for me from the clock-case.
It stood on the landing just at the bottom of the dark flight that led
to the garret. An oaken case six feet high or more, and a vast dial,
with a mysterious picture of a full moon and a ship in full sail that
somehow indicated the quarters of the year, if you had been imitating
Rip Van Winkle and after a sleep of six months wanted to know whether it
was spring or autumn. But only to think that all the while we were
puzzling over the moon and the ship and the queer signs on the dial a
gun was hidden inside! The case was locked, it is true; but there are
ways of opening locks, and we were always handy with tools.
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