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He was not rugged, nor was he loud-spoken, as his venerable trainer would have liked to present him to society; but he was as serenely terrible as a well-aimed rifle, and the old man looked upon his results with pride. He had cultivated him up to that pitch where he scorned to practise any vice, or any virtue, that did not include the principle of self-assertion.

"Put up your hands, quick!" A dark shape, with arm thrust straight before it, loomed through the drift of snow. "Oh, I say " began Cameron. "Quick!" said the voice, with a terrible oath, "or I drop you where you stand." "All right!" said Cameron, lifting up his hands with his rifle high above his head. "But hurry up! I can't stand this long. I am nearly frozen as it is."

Anything might happen to him this day! He reached inside the seat to grasp the disjointed rifle, and three swift movements seemed to serve to unwrap it and put the pieces together. "What else did Anderson say?" he asked, sharply. "That likely the car would head for the hills, where the I.W.W.'s are camped." "What road from here leads that way?"

All instantly rose to their feet, looking upon the face of the warrior for direction as to what they were to do. Before he could speak, the sound of a rifle was heard, causing a start of alarm on the part of his companions. The latter noticed that the direction of the report was from the river, and, as it seemed, from the very spot where they had left it. "What is the meaning of that?" asked Ned.

In that conclusion lay solace. The next morning found Maggard busied about his dooryard, albeit with his rifle standing ready to hand, and to-day he wore his shirt with the arm-pit pistol holster under its cover.

White and red faces mingled before him in a blur, the water seemed to flow in narrow, black streams between the boats and the pall of smoke was ever growing thicker. It hung over them, black and charged now with gases. Paul coughed violently, but he was not conscious of it. He fired his rifle until it was too hot to hold. Then he laid it down, and seizing an oar pulled with the energy of fever.

Let us now follow the movements of Captain Bodington. He afterwards wrote the following report: "Up to the time of reaching a point a hundred yards in rear of the Black Line, the advance was easy. "On crossing the small rise behind Wine House we came under very heavy machine-gun and rifle fire from both Wine House and Spree Farm.

His son, a virtual half-wit, who took advantage of every opportunity to rifle the old man's pockets and spend the money in Valencia with bull-fighters, gamblers and horse-dealers, went barefoot in those days, scampering about the roads with the children of the gipsies encamped in El Alborchi.

Their arrows fell like a hailstorm, but as good luck would have it, none of them struck, and the balls from their rifles were wild, as the Indians in those days were not very good shots; the rifle was a new weapon to them.

On the edge of the water, just covered by some wreckage, the chauffeur lay motionless. The masked man crawled from under the wreckage and looked at him a moment. "Dead!" he exclaimed, still mechanically gripping a rifle in his hand. Angrily he raised it at us and fired. A moment later, some other men gathered from all directions about him, each armed.