Then I heard a report at my ear, and out of a corner of my eye saw Peter lower his pistol.
Presently we were out of range, and, looking back, I saw three men gesticulating in the middle of the road.
'May the devil fly away with this pistol,' said Peter ruefully.

'I never could make good shooting with a little gun.

Had I had my rifle...' 'What did you shoot for ?' I asked in amazement.

'We've got the fellows' car, and we don't want to do them any harm.' 'It would have saved trouble had I had my rifle,' said Peter, quietly.
'The little man you call Rasta was there, and he knew you.

I heard him cry your name.