CHAPTER XVII.
DECIDEDLY MEDIÆVAL.
I was in the Garden Pavilion only the other morning with one of my sons, teaching him how to use his weapons. Suddenly he pointed at a bullet-mark not in any of the targets, but in the wainscoting above and a little to the right of them.
"There's a bad shot, father!" he cried.
"But you don't know what he aimed at," I objected.
"At a target, of course!"
"But perhaps his target was differently placed. That shot is many years old."
"Anyhow he missed what he shot at, or he wouldn't have struck the wainscoting," the boy persisted.
"Why, yes, he missed, but he may have missed only by a hair's breadth."
"Do you know who fired the shot?"
"Yes. It's a strange story; perhaps you shall hear it some day."
This little scene recalled with vividness my memories of the morning when Wetter and I met in the Pavilion. I had hit on a good plan. I was known to practise often, and Wetter was given to the same pursuit. Indeed we had shot against one another in club matches before now, and come off very equal.
