“Saved once more,” cried Mr Frewen.
“Yes, sir, and them too. But beg pardon, sir,” growled Bob Hampton; “I mean you, sir,—Mr Preddle, sir,—are you sure as you loaded the gun?”
“Yes, quite. With one of these cartridges,”—and he went to a box, out of which he took one with the ball fitted in its place by means of a couple of tin bands.
“That’s right, sir; but did you ram it home?”
“Yes, hard.”
Bob Hampton thrust in the rammer and felt the cartridge.
“Yes, sir; seems right. Perhaps the powder’s old and damp.”
“No; I think it was perfectly dry.”
“Humph!” growled Bob; and then an idea seemed to strike him.
“Beg pardon, sir,” he cried; “would you mind showing me how you shoved the cartridge in?”