“Come to the further mark,” I said, putting him half a dozen paces to the rear. “You shoot well.”
He tried from the further mark and hit the target each time, but only once got on to the bull’s-eye.
“It’s a long distance, and the light’s rather bad. Do you shoot much?”
“Well, a little. I have only had two or three shots here;” and I picked up a revolver carelessly. “I am sorry you found the light bad.” I turned, then levelled the pistol and fired half-a-dozen shots in rapid succession.
“You have missed,” he cried, laughing gleefully.
“I think not. You will find the six bullets in a ring round the bull’s-eye. I never miss.” I spoke with intentionally boastful swagger.
He went up to the target and examined it, and then turned to me:
“By the Lord, you’re a wonderful shot. Where did you learn that trick?”
The unfeigned surprise and admiration in his tone pleased me. He would know now, at least, that I was not a man to be trifled with; from that moment his manner towards me changed, and his bluster and swagger decreased.
“I am very fond of pistol practice,” I answered quietly.