So once more I prepared to fire, and as I did so I saw that two of the French passengers had their telescopes fixed upon the object at which, after taking very careful aim, speck as it seemed, I fired.
To my utter astonishment, as the smoke rose I saw no bladder was floating on the waves, a fact of which the lookers-on had already informed me by a round of applause.
“He would not hit them when they were close,” cried one passenger. “I said, he would not try. It was un grand shot, messieurs, un coup merveilleux.”
I felt scarlet in the face, and grew the more and more ashamed as first one and then another insisted upon shaking hands with me.
“Now, Nat,” said my uncle in a low voice, “after that you will lose your character if you do not hit some more.”
“Pray, don’t send out another, uncle,” I whispered.
“Why not, boy? What does it matter if you do miss? Keep on practising, and never mind what people say. Are you ready?”
“Yes, uncle.”
“Fire, then, as soon as you get a good view of the bladder.”
I waited until it was about forty yards away, and rising slowly to the top of a wave, when, calculating the distance as well as I could, I fired, and the bladder disappeared.