"rookie," his idle weeks and weeks of shooting at the Monte Carlo pigeons. He had always been proud of his gun-work. But his aim would have been more assured, he knew, if the number of his cigars had been more limited.
He was able to go down the row of clay pipes, however, snapping pipe after pipe off at the stem, each in its turn. Then, having leaned over the counter in utter idleness for a minute or two, he tried out the tube target. His third shot rang the bell. So did his fifth, his eighth, his ninth and his tenth. Then he put down his gun, felt through his pockets, and stared about with a heavy-eyed dismay.
"Hell!" he mumbled, "there ain't even a dime for another go!"
He was conscious of the fact that the stranger in the sweat-stained Stetson had crossed over to the counter and was standing close beside him. He could hear the click of a coin as it was snapped down on the board.
"Jigger, hand the gen'leman a gun. It's worth a nickel or two to see real shootin'!"
Kestner laughed with lazy unconcern, took the rifle, and tried for his eleventh target.
"Missed!" ejaculated the stranger as the bullet left its tell-tale stain a half-inch above the bull's-eye.
"'S what booze does," complained Kestner as he sighted again. Out of the next six shots, however, four of them were bull's-eyes. It was by that time, too, that Kestner had decided on his rôle.
"You're a slick shot," solemnly admitted the stranger.
