“What a time he is,” whispered Mark, when Bevis pulled the trigger, and they all ran forward. Jack jumped through the gap and picked up the rabbit, which was kicking in the grass. Bevis rubbed his shoulder and felt his collar-bone.
“Hurt?” said Jack, laughing. “Kicked? I was going to tell you only you were in such a hurry. You should have held the stock tight to your shoulder, then it would not kick. There, like this; now try.”
Bevis took the gun and pressed it firm to his bruised shoulder.
“Got it tight?” said Jack. “Aim at that thistle, and try again.”
“But he’ll frighten the rabbits, and it’s my turn,” said Mark.
“All gone in,” said Jack, “every one; you’ll have to wait till they come out again. Shoot.”
Bevis shot, and the thistle was shattered. It scarcely hurt him at all, it would not have done so in the least, only his shoulder was tender now.
“It’s a very little rabbit,” said Mark.
“That it’s not,” said Bevis. “How dare you say so?”
“It looks little.”