That night, as Stanley was about falling asleep, he heard a shot, and a bullet tore through the tent a few inches above his body. He snatched his revolver and rushed out from the tent, and asked the men around the watch-fires, "Who shot?" They had all jumped up, rather startled by the sudden report.
"Who fired that gun?"
One said the "Bana Mdogo"—little master.
Stanley lit a candle and walked with it to Shaw's tent.
"Shaw, did you fire?"
There was no answer. He seemed to be asleep, he was breathing so hard.
"Shaw! Shaw! did you fire that shot?"
"Eh—eh?" said he, suddenly awakening; "me?—me fire? I have been asleep."
Stanley's eye caught sight of his gun lying near him. He seized it—felt it—put his little finger down the barrel. The gun was warm; his finger was black from the burnt gunpowder.