Fitz imitated his companion’s act and stopped short, his eyes striving hard to pierce the gloom in front; but for nearly a minute both stood on the strain.
“Nothing,” said Poole. “Come on. It was some little animal escaping through the bushes; but make ready.”
The clicking of the locks of both pieces sounded painfully loud in the silence as they went cautiously on, stopping again and again to listen, each wishing they could hear some sound to relieve the painful tension from which they suffered; but everything living seemed to have been scared away, and they kept on without interruption, while the river instead of getting nearer seemed to grow farther off, till at last Poole slipped on one of the muddy logs which formed the road, and nearly went headlong, but was saved by his companion, who in his effort to hold him up, fetched him a sharp rap on the head with the barrel of his gun.
“Thank you,” said Poole.
“Oh, I only tried to keep you up,” said Fitz, breathing hard.
“I meant for that affectionate crack you fetched me on the head. I say, this arn’t sporting, you know.”
“What do you mean?” whispered Fitz.
“I mean, don’t shoot me so as to fill the bag.”
“Don’t fool,” cried Fitz angrily.
“All right; but don’t hit me again like that. It hurts.”