“Just making a final inspection to see if there is anything left that we may need,” the old hunter said. “There’s a king’s ransom in here yet, but we can’t use it on our trip, and in another twenty-four hours it may be on the bottom of the ocean.”
Larry, trying to conceal the pride he felt, handed Martin the tin target he had brought with him. The old hunter examined it gravely, counting the number of bullet holes carefully. There were ten of them, including the one Martin had made.
“Eleven misses in twenty shots,” he commented, simply.
The boy, who was swelling with pride, looked crestfallen.
“But the last five all hit it,” he explained. “At first I hit all around it, and then I hit it almost every other time, and at last I hit it five times straight.”
“Put up a new target and try ten more,” was Martin’s only comment. But when Larry had gone he chuckled to himself with satisfaction. “Some shooting for a city boy!” he said to himself; “but I won’t spoil him by telling him so.”
When Larry returned with the second target there were seven bullet holes in it; but still the old hunter made no comment on the score. “Now go back and try ten of the big ones, and remember that you are shooting at big game this time,” he admonished.
Larry returned slowly to his shooting range. Martin was a very hard and unreasonable task-master, he decided. But, remembering that he had hit the mark so frequently before, he resolved to better his score this time. This was just the resolution Martin had hoped he would make.
So the boy fastened the target in place, adjusted the hammer for firing the larger cartridge. Then he shut his teeth together hard, took a careful but quick aim, for Martin had explained that slow shooting was not the best for hunting, and pulled the trigger. The sound of the loud report startled him, and his shoulder was jerked back by the recoil. It didn’t hurt, exactly, for the aluminum butt plate was covered with a springy rubber pad; but it showed him very forcibly what a world of power there must be in those stubby little cylinders of brass and lead.
He forgot his astonishment, however, when on going to the target, he found that the big bullet had pierced the tin almost in the center; and as he stood gazing at the hole he heard a low chuckle that cleared away all his dark clouds. Old Martin had slipped up behind him quietly; and there was no mistaking the old hunter’s wrinkled smile of satisfaction.