The Education of Me and Cousin Freddie, ch. 3

The Alberton Pa pers Vol. VI, #V
By Dick Darne 4-8-08
The Education of Me and Cousin Freddie, chapter 3
I can only tell this story because after 50 years, the statute of limitations has to have run out. It began sometime in our early days as adventure seeking young men (otherwise known as little brats full of mischief). At first glance, it was a thing of beauty, after a few more glances it became a piece of junk. It was an old .32 caliber rimfire pistol, exactly where we found it I am unable to remember, but I do remember it was so worn out that we would have to wedge a penny between the cylinder and the frame in order to make it fire. We had to have a supply of pennies handy, as upon firing, the coin would sail over into the bushes while the slug would shave off parts of itself, missing the target completely and propelling slices of lead to both sides. It was best operated with your assistant directly behind you with his back turned.
One lazy spring morning, as the sun rose up and bathed us in stupid rays, we decided to play hookey, go into the big city and see if we could sell it at a pawn shop. We hitched a ride into the city and were left with a couple of miles to traverse on foot. At that exact time, the sun, after sharing it’s stupid rays with us decided to take the rest of the day off and turn everything over to rain and cold. We were soaked when we got to the pawn shop.
"Can I help you boys?" the pawnbroker asked.
"Yes, we would like to sell this pistol." we answered as we set it on the counter, not knowing that not only were handguns illegal in the city but we were way too young to even be in that place.
"You boys wait right here, I’ll be right back." he said as he disappeared into the back room.
About that time the stupid rays wore off and we were both seized with newfound wisdom. Our simultaneous mental telegrams said the same thing; HE’S CALLING THE COPS, LET’S GET OUTA HERE! We grabbed the pistol and ran out the door and into the rain. The only safe route was to walk out of town on the old canal towpath, long and wet. We got back to our town and hid out in the hayloft of a horse barn until school ended. We got busted for hookey, but our folks never knew the details of the adventure .but wait, there’s more.
One of the shells stayed in my pocket, kinda like a good luck charm until close to the end of school, on a day that the sun was bathing us in lazy rays while the teacher droned on and on. I pulled my lucky shell out and noticed the slug was a little loose. With a little help from my compass point, I managed to pry it apart. I poured the minute amount of powder into a folded piece of paper and put it away for future experimentation. I looked into the casing and saw what appeared to be some powder left around the rim. No problem, my trusty compass point should scrape it loose. About the second scrape, a flash, a hearty YEOWW and some slightly singed fingers broke the grip of our daily humdrum existence in that class. Brightened up the teacher’s otherwise dull day too. Infused me with newfound knowledge, I now knew what a rimfire was. The teacher applied the two-finger earlock on me and drug me to the office. These days I would be branded a terrorist and probably waterboarded, but back then it was just one more badge of honor to be seen as cool hand luke before he was even invented. Losing half of Uncle Fred’s shotgun is a story for another day. Never let ‘em see you sweat. dd