And, to the astonishment of Keith, the worshipful adoration of the shooting-gallery proprietor, and the awe of the usual audience that gathered at the sound of the reports, he proceeded to give an exhibition of the skill that had made him famous. The shooting galleries of those days used no puny twenty-twos. Derringers, pocket revolvers, and the huge "navies" were at hand—with reduced loads, naturally—for those who in habitual life affected these weapons. Johnny shot with all of them, displaying the tricks of the gunman with all the naïve enthusiasm of youth. His manner throughout was that engaging mixture of modesty afraid of being thought conceited and eager pride in showing his skill so attractive to everybody. At first he shot deliberately, splitting cards, hitting marbles, and devastating whole rows of clay pipes. Then he took to secreting the weapons in various pockets from which he produced and discharged them in lightning time. His hand darted with the speed and precision of a snake's head.
"I've just been fooling with shooting things tossed in the air," he said, exuberant with enthusiasm. "But I'm afraid we can't try that here."
"I'm afraid not," agreed the proprietor regretfully.
"It really isn't very hard, once you get the knack."
"Oh, no," said the proprietor with elaborate sarcasm. "Say," he went on earnestly, "I suppose it ain't no use trying to hire you—"
Johnny shook his head, smiling.
"I was afraid not," observed the proprietor disappointedly. "You'd be the making of this place. Drop in any time you want practice. Won't cost you a cent. Would you mind telling me your name?"
"Fairfax," replied Johnny, gruffly embarrassed.
"Not Diamond Jack?" hesitated the proprietor.
"I'm sometimes called that," conceded Johnny, still more gruffly. "How much is it?"