“Get out of the way!” cried Raymond, impatient to display his skill, and raising the bird as high in the air as his arms allowed.
The box was closed and the man stepped aside; Raymond threw the bird with such accuracy that the piece of iron, after following a zigzag course, struck six inches from the target. My neighbor was not discouraged, but threw the bird again—with no better success.
“It’s all out of equilibrium,” he cried; “the wire’s crooked, it isn’t my fault.”
“This is your last shot.”
“Oh! this one will do the business.”
Raymond took aim for at least three minutes; at last the bird flew through the air. It finished its flight; but there was no report.
“I’ve won! I’ve won!” cried Raymond’s adversary; “you owe me an ice.”
“Oh! I don’t know whether you’ve won or not; that depends. I am sure that the bird’s beak moved the spring, and the reason it didn’t go off must be that the powder’s damp.”
“You’re trying to crawl out of it! you’ve lost, and you owe me an ice!”
“Well! I demand my revenge!”