As long as this pistol practice had the charm of novelty for Ratty, it was all very well; but when, day by day, the strange mistakes and nervousness of his grandmamma became less piquant from repetition, it was not such good fun; and when the rantipole boy, after as much time as he wished to devote to the old woman's caprice, endeavoured to emancipate himself and was countermanded, an outburst of “Oh, bother!” would take place, till the grandmother called up the prospective shillings to his view, and Ratty bowed before the altar of Mammon. But even Mammon failed to keep Ratty loyal; for that heathen god, Momus, claimed a superior allegiance; Ratty worshipped the “cap and bells” as the true crown, and “the bauble” as the sovereign sceptre. Besides, the secret became troublesome to him, and he determined to let the whole house know what “gran” and he were about, in a way of his own.
The young imp, in the next day's practice, worked up the grandmamma to a state of great excitement, urging her to take a cool and determined aim at the looking-glass. “Cover him well, gran,” said Ratty.
“I will,” said the dowager, resolutely.
“You ought to be able to hit him at six paces.”
“I stand at twelve paces.”
“No—you are only six from the looking-glass.”
“But the reflection, child, in the mirror, doubles the distance.”
“Bother!” said Ratty. “Here, take the pistol—mind your eye and don't wink.”
“Ratty, you are singularly obtuse to the charms of science.”
“What's science?” said Ratty.