“No, no, no,” cried Lawrence excitedly. “You shut the breech first.”
“My dear boy—oh! I see. Yes, of course. Oh! that’s what you meant. Of course, of course. I should have seen that directly. Now, then, it’s all right. Loaded?”
“Sir! sir! sir!” cried the dealer, but he was too late, for the old lawyer had put the gun to his shoulder, pointing the barrel towards the door, and pulled both triggers.
The result was a deafening explosion, two puffs of smoke half filling the place, and the old gentleman was seated upon the floor.
“Good gracious, Burne!” cried the professor, rushing to him, “are you much hurt?”
Lawrence caught at the chair beside him, turning ashy pale, and gazing down at the prostrate man, while quite a little crowd of people filled the shop.
“Hurt?” cried Mr Burne fiercely—“hurt? Hang it, sir, do you think a man at my time of life can be bumped down upon the floor like that without being hurt?”
“But are you wounded—injured?”
“Don’t I tell you, yes,” cried Mr Burne, getting up with great difficulty. “I’m jarred all up the spinal column.”
“But not wounded?”