A heavy dull report of a gun from close by, and Hickathrift started aside and nearly went overboard, but recovered himself, and sat down panting.
“Here! hi! Mind where you’re shooting!” cried Dick. “Who’s that?”
He stared in the direction from which the sound had come, but nothing but mist was visible, and no answer came.
“Do you hear? Who’s that?” shouted Dick with both his hands to his mouth.
No answer came, and Hickathrift now shouted.
Still no reply. His great sonorous voice seemed to return upon him, as if he were enveloped in a tremendous tent of wet flannel; and though he shouted again and again it was without result.
“Why, what’s the matter with your hand, man?” cried Mr Marston, as the wheelwright took his cotton kerchief from his neck, and began to bind it round his bleeding palm.
“Nowt much, sir,” said the man smiling.
“Why, Hickathrift, were you hit?”
“S’pose I weer, sir. Something came with a whuzz and knocked my hand aside.”