“I heard a sort of yell,” said poor Hannah. “I don’t like it, Miss Tish. The time before you just missed me.”
“Why did you stick your arm out?” demanded Tish. “Now take that broomstick and we’ll start again. Did you score that?”
“How’ll I score it?” asked Hannah. “Hit or miss?” She went to the cellar wall and stood waiting, with a piece of charcoal in her hand. The whitewashed wall was marked with rows of X’s and ciphers. The ciphers predominated.
“Mark it a miss.”
“But I heard a yell——”
“Fiddle-de-dee! Are you ready?” Tish had lifted a small rifle into position and was standing, with her feet apart, pointing it at a white target hanging by a string from a rafter. As she gave the signal, Hannah sighed, and, picking up a broomhandle, started the target to swaying, pendulum fashion; Tish followed it with the gun.
I thought things had gone far enough, so I stepped into the cellar and spoke in ringing tones.
“Letitia Carberry!” I said sternly.
Tish pulled the trigger at that moment and the bullet went into the furnace pipe. It was absurd, of course, for Tish to blame me for it, but she turned on me in a rage.
“Look what you made me do!” she snapped. “Can’t a person have a moment’s privacy?”