This time when he lifted the rifle it was cocked. Then he pressed the trigger.
When the whiplike report sounded, the deer gave a staggering lurch and fell headlong.
Hans Dunnerwust could not repress a cheer. He sprang to his feet, swinging his cap, and ran toward the fallen doe as fast as his short, fat legs would carry him.
“Id’s kilt me! Id’s kilt me!” he was shouting.
Fearing it might not be quite dead, he stopped and drew his hunting knife. It did not rise, however, it did not even kick, and, made bold by these circumstances, Hans waddled up to it and began to slash it with the fury of a lunatic.
“Whoop!” he screeched. “I god id! I shooded id! I vos a teer gilt! Who said dot Hans Dunnerwust coult nod shood somedings, eh?”
Merriwell trained the camera on him once more, as he stood in this ferocious attitude, with the knife extended, from which no blood dripped, and looked triumphantly down at the deer at his feet. Then Merry rose and advanced.
Hans turned when he heard the snapping of the bushes, and was about to bolt from the place, but, seeing that it was Merriwell, he changed his mind and began to dance and caper like a crazy boy.
“You see dot?” he screeched, proudly pointing to the dead doe. “Dot vos a teer vot kilt me shust now. Tidn’t you heered id shood me?”