Again my long practice with a pistol served me a good turn.
My first shot was all right.
I had picked out the fellow who leaned over the bow, like a gaunt harpy, eager to lay hold as they came up and to fasten the boats together, while his companions smothered us with very numbers.
He made quite a fuss over the matter; really, you might have thought he was the recipient of a cannon ball somewhere about his anatomy, instead of a tiny leaden pill.
I knew he was not much to be feared in the coming encounter, and turned to present my further compliments to the fellow who dangled from the bow of the other boat.
Jove! he had a pistol, too, and even as I looked that way, it flashed fire, while the angry bellow rang over the water.
How lucky for us that he had never made it his hobby to do target practice some thousands of times like myself, else would the bullet have found better service than to whistle past our ears, and go ricochetting over the water beyond.
That settled him.
I considered him too dangerous an individual to lose sight of—doubtless, his weapon still contained five shots, and if he kept on blazing away in this reckless manner, who could tell but that one bullet might, by some wonderful accident, do us serious damage.
Such things have happened.