“I see,” said Richard, with his eyes lighting up. “I’ve had my turn at the scoundrel, and I’m satisfied. Of course I don’t want to hit him, but at the same time I don’t want him to hit me.”
“Oh!” said the Colonel drily, “I thought you did.”
“What! want him to hit me! Why?”
“You seemed so cool over it.”
“Oh, but I’m not,” said Richard gravely. “I suppose a good shot would hit one of those cards?”
“Time was, Dick, when I could have put half a dozen shots in either of them. I don’t know that I could hit one now.”
He raised the pistol he had been loading as he spoke, took a quick aim, and hit the centre card just on the edge, driving it into the bark of the tree.
“Bad!” he said. “Let’s try another.”
He aimed at the card representing the enemy’s right arm fired, and struck it also about a quarter of an inch from the edge.
“Out of practice, Dick,” he said, thrusting the pistols into their dark cloth bags, and replacing them in his pocket. “There, my lad, let’s get home. Dine lightly this evening, go to bed in good time, and have a long night’s rest.”