“If the pistol don’t burst. That is all I care about. However, Teazer, since your fame is concerned—for I remember boasting of your dexterity to Charlie, at Grove End—go and get the pistol and show him what you can do.”
She went into the house, and after a short absence, returned with a pistol case, and a small worsted ball, to which a piece of thread was attached.
“Please go and hang this up for me on that rose tree there.”
I took the ball and suspended it to a branch. She loaded her pistol very scientifically.
“Your white hand,” said I, “entirely robs the pistol of its murderous significance.”
“Go and stand near the tree,” she answered, “and then you’ll see the thread cut.”
She had sneered at my courage yesterday, and the wound still bled. That she might have no further occasion to doubt my prodigious valour, I took up a position so close to the tree that, had she suffered me to remain there, it would have been ten to one but I had received the ball. She guessed my motive, and called out laughingly, “Not so near: I might hit you!”
I stalked a few paces away, with a great air of nonchalance, as if I should say, “Pshaw! I am quite used to be shot at.” She levelled her pistol. I looked at her.
“Watch the thread,” she said. She was twenty paces off. I fixed my eyes on the string-bang! a sharp, clear report, and down dropped the ball.
“Wonderful!” I exclaimed.