He lifted the gun, which was somewhat heavy, having been converted from a muzzle-loader, and old guns were made heavier than is the custom now. One of the rabbits moving turned his back to him, so that he could not see the shoulder; the other was behind a bunch of grass; but in a minute the third moved, and Bevis aimed at him. The barrels would not at first keep quite steady, the sight, just as he had got it on the rabbit, jumped aside or drooped, so that he had to try twice before he was satisfied. “What a time he is,” whispered Mark, when Bevis pulled the trigger, and they all ran forward. Jack jumped through the gap and picked up the rabbit, which was kicking in the grass. Bevis rubbed his shoulder and felt his collar-bone. “Hurt?” said Jack, laughing. “Kicked? I was going to tell you only you were in such a hurry. You should have held the stock tight to your shoulder, then it would not kick. There, like this; now try.” Bevis took the gun and pressed it firm to his bruised shoulder. “Got it tight?” said Jack. “Aim at that thistle, and try again.” “But he’ll frighten the rabbits, and it’s my turn,” said Mark. “All gone in,” said Jack, “every one; you’ll have to wait till they come out again. Shoot.” Bevis shot, and the thistle was shattered. It scarcely hurt him at all, it would not have done so in the least, only his shoulder was tender now. “It’s a very little rabbit,” said Mark. “That it’s not,” said Bevis. “How dare you say so?” “It looks little.” “The size of a kitten,” said Jack. “As sweet as a chicken,” he added, “when cooked, and as white. You shall have it to-morrow for dinner-- just the right size to be nice;” he saw that Bevis was rather inclined to be doubtful, and wished to reassure him. Jack was a huge, kind-hearted giant. “Are you sure it will be nice?” “The very thing,” said Jack, “if Mark can only shoot another just like it; it wants two for a pudding.” About half an hour afterwards Mark did shoot another, and then there was a long discussion as to which was the biggest, which could not be decided, for, in fact, being both about the same age, one could hardly be distinguished from the other, except that Mark’s had a shot-hole in the ear, and Bevis’s had not. On the way home a cloud of sparrows rose out of some wheat and settled on the hedge, and Bevis had a shot at these, bringing down three. Afterwards he missed a yellow-hammer that sat singing happily on a gate. He wanted the yellow-hammer because it had so fine a colour. The yellow-hammer sang away while he aimed, repeating the same note, as he perched all of a heap, a little lump of feathers on the top bar. The instant the flash came the bird flew, and as is its habit in starting drooped, and so was shielded by the top bar. The bar was scarred with shot, and a dozen pellets were buried in it; but the yellow-hammer was not hurt.