The gifts bestowed by the gods upon Eliphalet Cardomay did not include a very generous measure of humour, or he would scarcely have set about his preparations with such precision and calm. Bearing the case of old pinfire revolvers, he entered a gunsmith’s in High Street, and asked for cartridges.
The shop assistant examined the bore of the weapon and rummaged about among his stock.
“I think these’ll do,” he said, “but it’s an old pattern pistol, and this stuff has been lying around some years. We’ve a range at the back, if you’d care to try a few shots.”
“I should, very much. Perhaps you would lend me a wire bristle—these barrels are a trifle rusty.”
Having little to occupy him, the amiable assistant spent half-an-hour in cleaning up the old weapons, and succeeded in imparting to them a greatly rejuvenated air.
“Don’t get much shooting in your line, do you?” he asked. A provincial shopman recognises, by a kind of second-sight, every touring actor and actress who visits the town.
“I have practised a little,” returned Eliphalet, “for you cannot use a weapon effectively on the stage unless you are acquainted with the right method.”
They descended to the basement, where there was a miniature range, lighted with little whistling gas-jets. The assistant hung a target to a clip and despatched it on a drawn wire to its appointed place. Eliphalet loaded the pistols, and balanced them critically in his hand. Then, laying one aside, he drew a bead and pressed the trigger. The bullet cut the inner line at twelve o’clock.
“Throws up a shade,” he remarked.
His second shot perforated the bull very neatly.