"Hold hard, Mr Simpson; you are surely only jesting."
"Jesting! How do you mean?"
"Why, using that cartridge in the way you are doing."
"What other way should I use it?"
"May I again remind you that I am utterly averse to facetiousness where firearms are concerned, and——"
"My dear Smithe, I meant nothing, I assure you. I pledge you my word of honour. Here, load it yourself;" and he handed me the gun.
"There'll be a job for the coroner afore sunset," growled Billy.
"What do you mean, sir?" exclaimed Simpson, rather savagely.
"Mane! There's widdys and lone orphans enough in the counthry, sir—that's what I mane," and Billy started in advance with the air of a man who had to do or die.
Mr Simpson was silent for some time, during which he found himself perpetually involved in his gun, which appeared to give him the uttermost uneasiness. First, he held it at arm's length as if it was a bow; then he placed it under his arm, and held on to it with the tenacity of an octopus; after a little he shifted it again, sloping it on his shoulder, ever and anon glancing towards the barrels to ascertain their exact position. He would pause, place the butt against the ground, and survey the surrounding prospect with the scrutinising gaze of a cavalry patrol.