“Why, we could do better ourselves, Noll!” cried Ingleborough. “So these are your puffed-up Boers whom writers have put in their books and praised so effusively! My word, what a lot of gammon has been written about rifle-shooting! I believe that Cooper’s Deerslayer with his old-fashioned rifle was a duffer after all, and the wonderful shots of the trappers all bluff.”
“Perhaps so!” shouted West, rather breathlessly; “but these fellows can shoot!”
“Not a bit!”
“Well, my ear has stopped bleeding; but it smarts as if someone was trying to saw into the edge.”
“Never mind; it’s only gristle!” said Ingleborough.
“I don’t mind, but if the Boer who fired that bullet had only held his rifle a hair’s breadth more to the left the scrap of lead would have gone into my skull.”
“Of course; but then he did not hold his rifle a hair’s breadth more to the left. By jingo!”
“What’s the matter?”
“Don’t quite know yet. It feels quite numb and free from pain. I don’t think I’m hit. I half fancy the poor pony has it, for he gave a tremendous start. All right; keep on! The bullet struck my rolled-up blanket, and it has gone into the saddle. I can feel the little hole.”
“What a narrow escape!” cried West anxiously. “Come, you must own that they can shoot straight! If that bullet had gone a trifle higher it would have gone through your loins.”