Stingaree
gun on its carriage. Fergus kept his blue eyes on the gleaming ring of the muzzle.
The hammer fell, the cartridge cracked, and from the lifted muzzle a tiny cloud flowed like a bubble from a pipe. The post quivered under Carrick's chin, and a splinter flew up and down before his eyes. But that was all.
"Aim longer," said he. "Get it over this shot."
"I'll try."
But the same thing happened again.
"Come nearer," sneered Fergus.
And Stingaree strode forward with an oath.
"I was going to give you six of them. But you're a braver man than I thought. And that's the lot."
The bound youth's livid face turned redder than the red dawn.
"Shoot me—shoot!" he shouted, like a lunatic.
"No, I shall not. I never meant to—I did mean you to sit out six—but you're the most gallant little idiot I've ever struck. Besides, you come from the old country, like myself!"
And a sigh floated into the keen morning air as he looked his last upon the lad through the celebrated monocle.
"Then I'll shoot myself when I'm free," sobbed Fergus through his teeth.
68
