Then, as it swung across the middle of the patch, he added the last trace of pressure.

He saw a train of sparks leap from the jerking muzzle, and felt the butt jar upon his shoulder.
Still, as is almost invariably the case with a man whose whole force of will is concentrated on holding the little sight on a living mark, he heard no detonation.

He recognized, however, the unmistakable thud of the bullet smashing through soft flesh, and that was what he listened for.
As he sprang to his feet, jerking another cartridge from the magazine, there was a sharp crackling amidst the thicket and a rustling of the fern.

A blurred shape that moved with incredible swiftness sailed into the air, and vanished as he fired again.

The smoke blew back into his eyes, and there was a low rustling that rapidly grew fainter.