A shooting gallery was in process of erection, and its glories soon dispelled the gloom of Angèle’s snub. The long tube was supported on stays, the target put in place, the gaudy front pieced together, and half a dozen rifles unpacked. The proprietor meant to earn a few honest pennies that night, and some of the men were persuaded to try their prowess.
Martin was a born sportsman. He watched the competitors so keenly that Angèle returned with her youthful cavaliers without attracting his attention. Worse than that, Evelyn Atkinson, scenting the possibility of rustic intrigue, caught Martin’s elbow and asked quite innocently why a bell rang if the shooter hit the bull’s-eye.
Proud of his knowledge, he explained that there was a hole in the iron plate, and that no bell, but a sheet of copper, was suspended in the box at the back where the lamp was.
Both Angèle and Evelyn appreciated the situation exactly. The boy alone was ignorant of their tacit rivalry.
Angèle pointed out Martin to the Beckett-Smythes.
“He is such a nice boy,” she said sweetly. “I see him every day. He can fight any boy in the village.”
“Hum,” said the heir. “How old is he?”
“Fourteen.”
“I am fifteen.”
Angèle smiled like a seraph.