Part 98 (2/2)

”All right. I know how to load. I'll fire at the breakwater out there.”

He fired, and Amomma ran away bleating. The bullet threw up a spurt of mud to the right of the wood-wreathed piles.

”Throws high and to the right. You try, Maisie. Mind, it's loaded all round.”

Maisie took the pistol and stepped delicately to the verge of the mud, her hand firmly closed on the b.u.t.t, her mouth and left eye screwed up.

d.i.c.k sat down on a tuft of bank and laughed. Amomma returned very cautiously. He was accustomed to strange experiences in his afternoon walks, and, finding the cartridge-box unguarded, made investigations with his nose. Maisie fired, but could not see where the bullet went.

”I think it hit the post,” she said, shading her eyes and looking out across the sailless sea.

”I know it has gone out to the Marazion Bell-buoy,” said d.i.c.k, with a chuckle. ”Fire low and to the left; then perhaps you'll get it. Oh, look at Amomma!--he's eating the cartridges!”

Maisie turned, the revolver in her hand, just in time to see Amomma scampering away from the pebbles d.i.c.k threw after him. Nothing is sacred to a billy-goat. Being well fed and the adored of his mistress, Amomma had naturally swallowed two loaded pin-fire cartridges. Maisie hurried up to a.s.sure herself that d.i.c.k had not miscounted the tale.

”Yes, he's eaten two.”

”Horrid little beast! Then they'll joggle about inside him and blow up, and serve him right.... Oh, d.i.c.k! have I killed you?”

Revolvers are tricky things for young hands to deal with. Maisie could not explain how it had happened, but a veil of reeking smoke separated her from d.i.c.k, and she was quite certain that the pistol had gone off in his face. Then she heard him sputter, and dropped on her knees beside him, crying, ”d.i.c.k, you aren't hurt, are you? I didn't mean it.”

”Of course you didn't,” said d.i.c.k, coming out of the smoke and wiping his cheek. ”But you nearly blinded me. That powder stuff stings awfully.”

A neat little splash of gray led on a stone showed where the bullet had gone. Maisie began to whimper.

”Don't,” said d.i.c.k, jumping to his feet and shaking himself. ”I'm not a bit hurt.”

”No, but I might have killed you,” protested Maisie, the corners of her mouth drooping. ”What should I have done then?”

”Gone home and told Mrs. Jennett.” d.i.c.k grinned at the thought; then, softening, ”Please don't worry about it. Besides, we are wasting time.

We've got to get back to tea. I'll take the revolver for a bit.”

Maisie would have wept on the least encouragement, but d.i.c.k's indifference, albeit his hand was shaking as he picked up the pistol, restrained her. She lay panting on the beach while d.i.c.k methodically bombarded the breakwater. ”Got it at last!” he exclaimed, as a lock of weed flew from the wood.

”Let me try,” said Maisie, imperiously. ”I'm all right now.”

They fired in turns till the rickety little revolver nearly shook itself to pieces, and Amomma the outcast--because he might blow up at any moment--browsed in the background and wondered why stones were thrown at him. Then they found a balk of timber floating in a pool which was commanded by the seaward slope of Fort Keeling, and they sat down together before this new target.

”Next holidays,” said d.i.c.k, as the now thoroughly fouled revolver kicked wildly in his hand, ”we'll get another pistol,--central fire,--that will carry farther.”

”There won't be any next holidays for me,” said Maisie. ”I'm going away.”

”Where to?”

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