However, I fired, and missed.
I naturally expected the animal to plunge into the river and escape. To
my astonishment, it remained in the same position. Finding that it did
not stir, I reloaded, and again fired and missed. Four times did I fire
at that water-vole, and after the last shot the animal slowly crawled
off the stump, slid into the river, and made off.
Now in those days revolvers and breech-loaders did not exist, so that
the process of loading a pistol with ball was rather a long and
complicated one.
First, the powder had to be carefully measured from the flask; then a
circular patch of greased linen had to be laid on the muzzle of the
weapon, and a ball laid on it and hammered into the barrel with a leaden
or wooden mallet; then it had to be driven into its place with a ramrod
(often requiring the aid of the mallet), and, lastly, there was a new
cap to be fitted. Yet although so much time was occupied between the
shots, the animal remained as motionless as a stuffed figure.
When I crossed the river and examined the stump I found all the four
bullets close together just below the spot on which the animal had been
sitting, and neither of them two inches from its body.
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