And even
as he was falling, aimlessly and mechanically, stricken then with
death, he managed twice again to discharge his weapon.
And after he struck the deck he never moved. I do believe he died in
the air.
As I held up my gun and gazed at the abruptly-deserted main-deck I
was aware of Wada's touch on my arm. I looked. In his hand were a
dozen little .22 long, soft-nosed, smokeless cartridges. He wanted
me to reload. I threw on the safety, opened the magazine, and tilted
the rifle so that he could let the fresh cartridges of themselves
slide into place.
"Get some more," I told him.
Scarcely had he departed on the errand when Bill Quigley, who lay at
my feet, created a diversion. I jumped--yes, and I freely confess
that I yelled--with startle and surprise, when I felt his paws clutch
my ankles and his teeth shut down on the calf of my leg.
It was Mr. Pike to the rescue. I understand now the Western
hyperbole of "hitting the high places." The mate did not seem in
contact with the deck. My impression was that he soared through the
air to me, landing beside me, and, in the instant of landing, kicking
out with one of those big feet of his.
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