“Mr. Norton, I am told you are clever with the rifle.”
“I am not shooting to-day,” responded Norton haughtily.
Murrell stalked back to the line.
“At forty paces I'd risk it myself, ma'am,” said the judge. “But at a hundred, offhand like this, I should most certainly fail—I've burnt too much midnight oil. Eh—what—damn the dog, he's scored another center shot!”
“It would be hard to beat that—” they heard Murrell say.
“At least it would be quite possible to equal it,” said Carrington, advancing with Hannibal's rifle in his hands. It was tossed to his shoulder, and poured out its contents in a bright stream of flame. There was a moment of silence.
“Center shot, ma'am!” cried the judge.
“I'll add twenty dollars to the purse!” Norton addressed himself to Carrington. “And I shall hope, sir, to see it go in to your pocket.”
“Our sentiments exactly, ma'am, are they not?” said the judge.
“Perhaps you'd like to bet a little of your money?” remarked Murrell.