“Do you realize that you want to be careful how you shoot with these high-power rifles?” asked Blake. “They carry a mile or more.”
“I’ve carried mine more than that, and it won’t carry an inch,” complained Ashton. “Wish you would see if you can fix it, while I get on some bacon.”
Blake took his scrutinizing gaze from his companion’s face, and picked up the rifle. Ashton showed plainly that he was tired and hungry and very irritable, but there was no trace of guilt in his look or manner. While he hurriedly prepared supper, Blake took apart the mechanism of the rifle. He discovered the trouble at once.
“This is easy,” he said. “Nothing broken––just a screw loose. Have you been monkeying with the parts, to see how they work?”
“No; I don’t care a hang how they work. What gets me is that they didn’t work!”
“Queer, then, how this screw got loose,” said Blake as he tightened it with the blade of his pocket knife. “It sets tight enough. Of course it might have come from the factory a bit loose, and jarred out with the firing; but neither seems probable.” 206
“Is it all right now?” queried Ashton.
“Yes.––Seems to me someone must have loosened this screw.”
“What’s the difference how it happened, if it will not happen again?” irritably replied Ashton. “Guess this bacon is fried enough. Let’s eat.”
Blake recoupled the rifle, emptied the magazine, tested the mechanism, refilled the magazine, and joined his ravenous companion in his ill-cooked meal.