John Young, carrying the heavy bottle, could not resist just taking out the cork to see how full it was. And his mouth was very large. “Here’s a mug,” said Mark, who had turned over a heap of things and found a tin cup. They each had a cupful. “Matchlock,” said Bevis. “Matchlock,” said Mark. For while they drank both had had their eyes on their gun-barrel. “Pliers,” said Bevis, taking it up. “Here’s the wire; I want the pliers.” It was not so easy to find the pliers under such a heap of things. “Store-room’s in a muddle,” said Mark. “Put it right,” said the captain. “I’ve got it.” Bevis put the barrel in the stock, and began twisting the copper wire round to fasten it on. Mark searched for the powder-horn and shot-bag. Three strands were twisted neatly and firmly round the barrel and stock--one near the breech, one half-way up, the third near the muzzle. It was then secure. “It looks like a real gun now,” said Mark. “Put your finger on the touch-hole,” said Bevis. Mark did so, while he blew through the barrel. “I can feel the air,” said Mark; “the barrel is clear. Shall I measure the powder?” “Yes.” Bevis shut the pan, Mark poured out the charge from the horn and inserted a wad of paper, which Bevis rammed home with the brass ramrod. Bow-wow--bow-yow! Up jumped Pan, leaped on them, tore round the hut, stood at the doorway and barked, ran a little way out, and came back again to the door, where, with his head over his shoulder, as if beckoning to them to follow, he barked his loudest. “It’s the gun,” said Mark. Pan forgot his trouble at the sound of the ramrod. Next the shot was put in, and then the priming at the pan. A piece of match or cord prepared to burn slowly, about a foot and a half long, was wound round the handle of the stock, and the end brought forward through the spiral of the hammer. Mark struck a match and lit it. “What shall we shoot at?” said Bevis, as they went out at the door. Pan rushed before and disappeared in the bramble bushes, startling a pair of turtle-doves from a hawthorn. “Parrakeets,” said Mark. “They’re smaller than parrots; you can’t shoot flying with a matchlock. There’s a beech; shoot at that.” The sunshine fell on one side of the trunk of a beech, lighting up the smooth bark. They walked up till they thought they were near enough, and planted the staff or rest in the ground. Bevis put the matchlock on it, pushed the lid of the pan open with his thumb, and aimed at the tree. He pulled the trigger; the match descended on the powder in the pan, which went puff! The report followed directly. “Never kicked a bit,” said Bevis, as the sulphury smoke rose; the barrel was too heavy to kick. “Hit!” shouted Mark, who had run to the tree. “Forty dozen shots everywhere.” Bevis came with the gun, and saw the bark dotted all over with shot. He measured the distance back to the rest left standing in the ground, by pacing steadily. “Thirty-two yards.” “My turn,” said Mark.