A sharp, spitting crack came from each rifle as it was fired.
"A dollar even money yer can't ring the bell in six shots," cried Chook.
"Done!" shouted Stinky.
The stakes, in half-crowns, were handed to the proprietor of the gallery, and they took turns with the pea-rifle, resting their elbows on the ledge as they stared down the black tube at a white disc that seemed miles away.

Each held the gun awkwardly like a broom-handle, holding their breath to prevent the barrel from wobbling.

At the fifth shot, by a lucky fluke, Chook rang the bell.

When he put down the rifle, Stinky was already dragging Pinkey away, his face black with anger.

But Chook cried out, "'Ere, 'arf a mo'-- this is my shout!" They were near the ice-cream stall, where trade was brisk, for the people's appetite for this delicacy is independent of the season.
Pinkey, who adored ice-cream, looked with longing eyes, but Stinky turned angrily on his heel.
"'Ave a bit o' common, an' don't make a 'oly show of yerself 'cause yer lost a dollar," she whispered in disgust.
She pulled him to a seat, and the party sat down to wait their turn.
Then the dealer scooped the frozen delicacy out of the can, and plastered it into the glasses as if it were mortar.