One afternoon, as I was passing the old ladies' house, saw,
or thought I saw, two men carrying in a coffin. I was struck
with alarm.
"What!" I thought. "Can either of those good women-- Or can
Pepton--"
Without a moment's hesitation, I rushed in behind the men.
There, at the foot of the stairs, directing them, stood Pepton.
Then it was not he! I seized him sympathetically by the hand.
"Which?" I faltered. "Which? Who is that coffin for?"
"Coffin!" cried Pepton. "Why, my dear fellow, that is not a
coffin. That is my ascham."
"Ascham?" I exclaimed. "What is that?"
"Come and look at it," he said, when the men had set it on
end against the wall. "It is an upright closet or receptacle for
an archer's armament. Here is a place to stand the bow, here are
supports for the arrows and quivers, here are shelves and hooks,
on which to lay or hang everything the merry man can need. You
see, moreover, that it is lined with green plush, that the door
fits tightly, so that it can stand anywhere, and there need be no
fear of drafts or dampness affecting my bow. Isn't it a
perfect thing? You ought to get one."
I admitted the perfection, but agreed no further. I had not
the income of my good Pepton.
Pepton was, indeed, most wonderfully well equipped; and yet,
little did those dear old ladies think, when they carefully
dusted and reverentially gazed at the bunches of arrows, the arm-
bracers, the gloves, the grease-pots, and all the rest of the
paraphernalia of archery, as it hung around Pepton's room, or
when they afterwards allowed a particular friend to peep at it,
all arranged so orderly within the ascham, or when they looked
with sympathetic, loving admiration on the beautiful polished
bow, when it was taken out of its bag--little did they think, I
say, that Pepton was the very poorest shot in the club.
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