“Why not cock your gun?” inquired Mr. Russell, quizzically.
Ned blushed. What a number of blunders he had made! Mr. Russell would think him very stupid.
He aimed again.
“Bang!”
The stock of the gun flew up and jarred his head, but he didn’t mind. He peered through the thin smoke. The can had disappeared.
“I hit it! I hit it! I know I hit it!” he cried, setting out on the dead run.
“I should say you did!” assured Mr. Russell, delighted, picking up the can and examining it. “Bravo! Fifteen—sixteen, seventeen! You beat me by one!”
Ned clutched the can, and delivered the gun into cooler keeping. He scanned his trophy inch by inch, and gloated over the many holes. Mr. Russell noted his puffed lip, and smiled.
“If you hadn’t taken in me, too, when you swung your gun, to aim,” he commented, “you might not have been punished by that lip.”