Aug. 9, 1913. 
FOREST AND STREAM 
171 
The Old “Hammer” Gun 
Being a Further “ Recollection ” of Boyhood 
By FRANK L. BAILEY 
F RANK and I wanted a real gun. We had 
tried every scheme from tobacco tags to 
Larkin soap, and the best we could do 
was one of those long wooden “Chicago” air 
rifles, the kind that when they get too old and 
worn you can take the spring out and stretch it 
to make it shoot harder. 
One night after school I was sitting in our 
den down under the head of the old Harpswell 
steamboat wharf, reading a Nick Carter. I had 
just laid my book down to roll a hayseed 
cigarette, when Frank rushed in all out of 
breath. 
“What’s up?” I inquired, fearing that some¬ 
body had shot our tame crow. 
“I’ve got it!” he managed to gasp. 
“What?” I asked breathlessly. 
“A gun, and it’s a peach.” 
“Gee!” I exclaimed, letting the hayseed 
sift out between my fingers. “Let’s see it.” 
Frank explained that he didn’t have it with 
him. It was the old hammer gun, the first gun 
A 1 Bibber owned. He said that A1 had just 
shown it to him. Then he went on to explain 
its mechanism. It was an old single barrel 
muzzleloader. The hammer was missing, but by 
striking the cap with a tack hammer it would 
shoot as well as ever. We took a good pull 
from a half-pint bottle of peppermint water that 
we kept for emergencies, then started for 
Bibber’s barn. I remember how we ran as fast 
as we could past my house for fear the folks 
would see me and want some chores done. 
Sure enough, there was the gun, plentifully 
coated with dust, and tied to the trigger guard 
was the tack hammer. A Winchester trade 
mark didn’t have anything on that gun. We 
gazed at it for a moment with a feeiing of 
reverence, then we sighted it. It was a trifle 
heavy to hold out. I was fourteen at the time 
and Frank was twelve. Still the weight didn’t 
make so much difference, its manner of firing 
almost demanded a rest anyway. We found a 
rag and brushed the old weapon up a bit and 
pronounced it perfect. Probably that was the 
first real hammerless gun used, but it remained 
for someone to pave the way. 
Next we ransacked Al’s gunning chest. We 
found powder, shot, caps and a goodly supply of 
oakum for wadding. Frank sneaked a look out 
through the cobwebs on the window pane. The 
coast was clear, so we smuggled the outfit 
through the back door, down under the bank 
to the shore, then down on the Point (Pott’s 
Point, Harpswell, Maine), where we hid it away 
under an old dory. We knew it would be safe 
here until morning. I was laboring under such 
excitement that night that I couldn't eat much 
supper and soon left the table. 
How good those caps sounded in the little 
brass box in my pocket. They rattled with every 
step, and made me feel like a man. Frank was 
waiting for me in the den. We had a smoke 
and talked things over for the morrow. I had 
some difficulty in trying to sleep that night, but 
managed to get a few winks. 
We got away at seven o’clock in the morn¬ 
ing. and when I smiled sneeringly at the air 
rifle, Frank said he thought he would take it 
along to shoot cripples, and besides we needed 
it for an excuse. 
We ran most of the way to where the old 
gun was concealed, didn't even stop for a smoke. 
There it lay," a thing of beauty. There were a 
few dew drops on the powder horn, but the 
contents were dry. Now for the loading. We 
both wanted to do it, still I was the older. I 
told Frank he might carry the hammer. I blew 
down through the barrel; the tube was clear. 
Then I loaded up. Frank told me not to ram it 
down too hard—it made them kick. I measured 
“four fingers” on the protruding ram-rod and 
considered it a fair load. Making sure that she 
was primed, I put on a cap and we were ready. 
Below us on the end of the Point lay a 
fine stretch of white sand; we could see it all 
shining in the morning sun. We decided that 
this ought to Ire a good place for sandpeep, so 
I shouldered the gun and we started. Down 
past the old frog pond we went, it having no 
allurement for us that morning. As we neared 
the beach we could plainly see eight or ten peep 
running nimbly about, chasing each wave out, 
running back with its return as they picked up 
choice bits left by the morning tide. 
Frank wanted to toss up to see who had 
the first shot, but I was older you know. As¬ 
suming a crouching position, we worked our 
way to within some thirty yards of the feeding 
birds. My legs were trembling badly and my 
heart wasn’t acting right at all. I doubted if 
we could get much nearer. Already they had 
begun running away from us, and several had 
stretched their wings up over their heads at 
different times. There was no place to rest the 
gun, so I whispered to Frank to strike the cap 
when I gave the word. I looked down along 
the barrel, the muzzle was wabbling something 
fierce, almost describing circles. I held my 
breath so long trying to get them bunched that 
I was compelled to stop and breathe. Finally I 
managed to mumble some words, and Frank, 
who was busy watching to see how many birds 
I shot, brought the hammer down. It missed 
the cap by a good margin, striking the barrel 
with a resounding whack, while I shut both eyes 
and jumped. The birds went into the air, and 
when I swung on them for a wing shot Frank 
missed the gun altogether. We looked at each 
other foolishly for a moment, forgetting to 
whistle them back. Then I mopped the perspi¬ 
ration from my eyes. Frank suggested that we 
use some word like “strike” or “shoot” for a 
signal to fire, and I agreed. It did remind me 
