“After all, since I dare say these gentlemen are more used to the shotgun, your superiority doesn’t prove very much.”
Crestwick looked around at him quickly.
“Most of you Colonials can use the rifle; do you feel inclined to take him on? You’re a dark horse, but I’ll double the stakes if he’ll throw you in.”
This was what Lisle wanted, but he turned to the others.
“I’ve never had a small rifle in my hands—we use the 44-70, and I must leave you to decide whether my shooting would be fair to Mr. Batley. In that case, I’ll put up half the stakes.”
The men said there was no reason why he should not join, and Batley made no protest, though Lisle fancied that he was not pleased. Lying down on the mat, he took the light-springed rifle and the six cartridges handed him and fixed his eyes on the target, which was a playing-card pinned to a thick plank. He got the first shot off before he was quite ready—the light pull was new to him—and somebody called that he had touched the left top corner. The next shot was down at the bottom, and the four following marks were scattered about the card. When he got up, Batley looked reassured and proceeded to make a neat pattern around the center of another card. There was no doubt that Crestwick was anxious, and when he took his turn he shot badly. In the meanwhile, the rest of the party on the lawn had gradually gathered round; the eager attitude of the original spectators hinted that something out of the usual course was going on.
Lisle was very cool when he lay down again. A swift, encouraging glance from Bella Crestwick made him determined, and during his previous six shots he had, he thought, learned the right tension on the trigger.
“Wipe it out for me, somebody,” he said, holding up the rifle.
Bella seized it and deftly used the rod, regardless of soiled fingers.
“May it bring you luck,” she wished, with a defiant glance at Batley, who smiled at her as she returned the weapon.