As they had not brought the powder-horn with them, they walked back to the hut.
“It’s not the gun’s fault, I’m sure,” said Mark. “It shoots beautiful; it’s my turn next.”
“Yes; you shall shoot. O! no, it’s not the gun. They can shoot sparrows in India with a single ball,” said Bevis; “and matchlocks kill tigers better than rifles. Matchlocks are splendid things.”
“Splendid things,” said Mark, stroking the stock of the gun, which he now carried on his shoulder, as if it had been a breathing pet that could appreciate his affection.
“This is a curious groove,” said Bevis, looking at the score in the bark of the teak where Mark’s bullet had struck it. “Look, it goes a little round; the bullet stuck to the tree and went a little way round, instead of just coming straight, so.”
“So it did,” said Mark. “It curved round the tree.”
“My arrow would have glanced off just the other way,” said Bevis, “if it had hit here.”
“The ball goes one way and the arrow the other.”
“One sticks to the tree as long as it can and the other shoots aside directly.”
Bullets have been known in like manner to strike a man’s head in the front part and score a track half round it, and even then not do much injury.