Renshaw looked puzzled.
“It’s very good of you to say so,” he answered. “You know by this time what the resources of the place are—or, rather, are not. Still, you were warmly welcome, and—I can never thank you enough, Sellon, for the unselfish way in which you have stayed here doing the good Samaritan for a perfect stranger, I owe my life to you.”
The other burst into a shout of laughter.
“That’s not what I meant, old chap. Stop. I’ll explain. But, first of all, where are your guns?”
Surprised at the question, Renshaw opened the Chest where the firearms were usually kept. It was empty.
“Now, look behind that big box under the sofa,” said the other, with a laugh.
This was done, and lo! there were the missing weapons, carefully rolled in sacking. Choking with laughter over the recollection, Sellon proceeded to narrate the circumstances under which he had been made a target of, as we have seen.
“And I’ll tell you what it is, old man,” he concluded; “if you can make such good shooting at five hundred yards when you’re off your chump, it’s sorry I’d be to do target for you at six hundred when you’re not.”
Renshaw whistled, and shook his head.
“I must have been bad,” he said. “Well, you saw how bad I was. But, I say, Sellon, did I—er—talk much—talk bosh, you know? Fellows often do when they’re that way.”