Kent held his fire and ran to the edge. Bang! The gun
exploded full in the sailor's face as he rose to his feet. But no smoke
came from the muzzle; instead, a sheet of flame burst from the side of
the barrel near its butt, and Jacob Kent went down. The dogs dashed up
the bank, dragging the sled over his body, and the driver sprang off as
Jim Cardegee freed his hands and drew himself from the hole.
"Jim!" The new-comer recognized him. "What's the matter?"
"Wot's the matter? Oh, nothink at all. It jest 'appens as I do little
things like this for my 'ealth. Wot's the matter, you bloomin' idjit?
Wot's the matter, eh? Cast me loose or I'll show you wot! 'Urry up, or
I'll 'olystone the decks with you!"
"Huh!" he added, as the other went to work with his sheath-knife. "Wot's
the matter? I want to know. Jes' tell me that, will you, wot's the
matter? Hey?"
Kent was quite dead when they rolled him over. The gun, an
old-fashioned, heavy-weighted muzzle-loader, lay near him. Steel and
wood had parted company. Near the butt of the right-hand barrel, with
lips pressed outward, gaped a fissure several inches in length.
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