Penrod, after waiting in keen suspense, turned to behold his friend standing with his right arm above his head, his left hand over his left ear, and both eyes closed.
“I can't pull the trigger,” said Sam indistinctly, his face convulsed as in sympathy with the great muscular efforts of other parts of his body. “She won't pull!”
“She won't?” Penrod remarked with scorn. “I'll bet I could pull her.”
Sam promptly opened his eyes and handed the weapon to Penrod.
“All right,” he said, with surprising and unusual mildness. “You try her, then.”
Inwardly discomfited to a disagreeable extent, Penrod attempted to talk his own misgivings out of countenance.
“Poor 'ittle baby!” he said, swinging the pistol at his side with a fair pretense of careless ease. “Ain't even strong enough to pull a trigger! Poor 'ittle baby! Well, if you can't even do that much, you better watch me while I—”
“Well,” said Sam reasonably, “why don't you go on and do it then?”
“Well, I AM goin' to, ain't I?”
“Well, then, why don't you?”