Pocket felt his prime quality impugned.
“Well? I can’t help it! I’ve done it before to-day; you needn’t believe me if you don’t like! Do you mind letting go of my hand?”
“With that in it!”
The scornful tone made the boy look down, and there was the pistol he had strapped to his wrist, not only firm in his unconscious clasp, but his finger actually on the trigger.
“You don’t mean to say I let it off?” cried Pocket, horrified.
“Feel the barrel.”
The tall man had done so first. Pocket touched it with his left hand. The barrel was still warm.
“It was in my sleep,” protested Pocket, in a wheezy murmur.
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“I tell you it was!”