“Sh!” exclaimed Hope-Jones, suddenly, then—“Drop down, fellows!”
They sank into the grass.
“What is it?” asked Harvey.
“Look over there, in that clump of trees.”
They saw something moving under the branches, then a form stood still.
“It’s a deer. I suppose it’s the Peruvian taruco. Can you bring it down at this distance, Ferguson? If we go nearer, we shall probably see our supper bound away.”
“I’ll try, but it’s a good range; almost six hundred yards, don’t you think?”
“All of that.”
“Then I’ll adjust the sights for seven hundred.”
He threw himself flat on the grass, pushed his rifle before him, resting the barrel on a stone, took aim for a minute, then fired. The deer sprang into the open, gave a second bound, rising from all four hoofs, and, twisting convulsively, fell dead.