“Now he’s taking the—linstock—don’t you call it?—from the man who is holding it, and is going to fire.”
“Don’t let him,” said Blunt sharply. “Take aim. Ready? Fire!”
In obedience to his companion’s orders, Stan had dropped on one knee, taken a long and careful aim, and then drew trigger.
For a few moments the soft grey smoke hung before the lad’s eyes and hid what was going on; but he did not waste time. Throwing out the empty cartridge, he began to fit in another, and as with trembling fingers he reclosed the breech he whispered sharply:
“Did I hit?”
“I fancy so; the man sprang up in the air and fell backwards. You’ve no time to look, so take it from me. They are carrying the man away.”
Stan drew in his breath with a hissing sound, but no time was given him to think of what he had done, for Blunt’s voice made him start, as he was bending over him.
“Loaded?” he said.
“Yes.”
“Take aim, then, at that man with the match. He is shifting the gun a little to allow for the distance the junk has floated with the stream.”