And, his automatic levelled at the thing’s heart, the gentleman from America went on counting. His voice was steady.
“Five ... six....”
He sat crouched at the head of the bed, his eyes never off the thing’s breast. Phantom nothing! He didn’t believe in that no-head bunk. What the hell! He thought of getting a little nearer the foot of the bed and catching the thing a whack on that invisible head of his, but decided to stay where he was.
“Seven ... eight....”
He hadn’t seen the hands before. Gee, some hands! And arms! Holy Moses, he’d got long arms to him, he had....
“Nine!” said the gentleman from America.
Christopher and Columbus, but this would make some tale back home! Yes, sir! Not a bad idea of Quillier’s, that, though! Those arms. Long as old glory ... long as the bed! Not bad for Sir Cyril Quillier, that idea....
“Ten, you swine!” yelled the gentleman from America and fired.
Someone laughed. Mr. Puce quite distinctly heard himself laughing, and that made him laugh again. Fur goodness’ sake, what a shot! Missed from that distance!
His eyes, as he made to take aim again, were bothered by the drops of sweat from his forehead. “Aw, what the hell!” said Mr. Puce, and fired again.