“Why, my rifle will reach farther than that. It might keep them off, I think.”
“Major, you are dreaming!” said I. “They are two hundred yards beyond range of our rifles. If they would only come within that, we should soon send them back for you.”
“But, Captain, mine will carry twice the distance.”
I looked at the major, under the belief that he had taken leave of his senses.
“It’s a zündnadel, I assure you, and will kill at eight hundred yards.”
“Is it possible?” cried I, starting; for I now recollected the curious-looking piece which I had ordered to be cut loose from the saddle of Hercules. “Why did you not tell me that before? Where is Major Blossom’s rifle?” I shouted, looking around.
“This hyur’s the major’s gun” answered Sergeant Lincoln. “But if it’s a rifle, I never seed sich. It looks more like a two-year old cannon.”
It was, as the major had declared, a Prussian needle-gun—then a new invention, but of which I had heard something.
“Is it loaded, Major?” I asked, taking the piece from Lincoln.
“It is.”