“It 's a short Tyrol rifle, a peasant's weapon. It 's not a very comely piece of ordnance, but it is very true and easy to carry. I bought it from an old chamois-hunter at Maltz; and I carried it with me this morning with the hope that you would accept it.”
“Oh, I couldn't think of it; I beg you to excuse me. I 'm much obliged; in fact, I never do—never did—take a present.”
“That's true, sir. Tony and I bear our narrow means only because there's a sort of ragged independence in our natures that saves us from craving for whatever we can do without.”
“A pretty wide catalogue, too, I assure you,” said Tony, laughing, and at once recovering his wonted good-humor. “We have made what the officials call the extraordinaires fill a very small column. There!” cried he, suddenly, “is the sea-gull on that point of rock yonder out of range for your rifle?”
“Nothing near it. Will you try?” asked Maitland, offering the gun.
“I 'd rather see you.”
“I 'm something out of practice latterly. I have been leading a town life,” said Maitland, as he drew a small eyeglass from his pocket and fixed it in his eye. “Is it that fellow there you mean? There's a far better shot to the left,—that large diver that is sitting so calmly on the rolling sea. There he is again.”
“He 's gone now,—he has dived,” said Tony; “there's nothing harder to hit than one of these birds,—what between the motion of the sea and their own wariness. Some people say that they scent gunpowder.”
“That fellow shall!” said Maitland, as he fired; for just as the bird emerged from the depth, he sighted him, and with one flutter the creature fell dead on the wave.
“A splendid shot; I never saw a finer!” cried Tony, in ecstasy, and with a look of honest admiration at the marksman. “I'd have bet ten—ay, twenty—to one you 'd have missed. I 'm not sure I 'd not wager against your doing the same trick again.”