“Look at that gun! Why, Fitz Burnett, you’ve been firing too!”
The boy’s jaw dropped, and he stared at the speaker, then at the lock of the double fowling-piece, and then back, before raising the cocks, opening the blackened breech, and withdrawing a couple of empty cartridges.
“I didn’t know,” he said softly. “Had it been fired before?”
“It’s kept warm a long time if it had,” said Poole, with his face wrinkling up with mirth. “Do you call this being a non-combatant?”
“Oh, but surely—” began Fitz. “I couldn’t have fired without knowing, and—” He paused.
“It seems that you could,” cried Poole mirthfully. “You’ve popped off two cartridges, for certain. Have you used any more?”
“Oh no! I am certain, quite certain; but I am afraid—in the excitement—hardly knowing what I was about—I must have done as the others did.”
“Yes, and you said you didn’t mean to fight. I say, nice behaviour this for an officer in your position. How many anti-revolutionists do you think you’ve killed?”
“Oh, Poole Reed, for goodness’ sake don’t say you think I’ve killed either of these poor wretches?”
“Any of these poor wretches,” corrected Poole gravely, and looking as solemn as he could. Then reading his companion’s horror in his face, he continued cheerily, “Nonsense, old chap! You couldn’t have killed anybody with those cartridges of swan-shot unless they were close at hand.”