An old plank was lying in the loft.
"Plank Caponier!" he yelled, pounced on it, and thrust it out of the window. "Now, Kit!—You're lightest!—There's your musket—loaded!— Blob, sit on this end with me!"
Kit, musket in hand, ran out on the plank.
He was standing on air.
"Steady!" hoarsed the Parson, blue eyes gleaming through the window. "Don't look down! Aim at her chest! Wait till you can see the roll of her eye!"
Kit heard nothing, saw nothing, but a foam-splashed breast, a nodding head, racing knees, and reaching feet.
All the world for him was in that black and shining bosom. It grew upon him as he looked. It was no more a chest. It was a cloud, about to burst on the world. He fired into the heart of it, sure he could not miss.
Up went the filly, fighting the air.
The boy saw her belly, her thighs, and the swish of her tail between her hocks.
Down she came in roaring ruin, the old mare an avalanche of snow burying her.