With the rifle he was a good,
steady shot, but by no means a "crack" one. His ball never failed to
_hit_, but it often failed to _kill_.
After meditating a few seconds, Joe Blunt again shook his head, and
muttered to himself, "The boy's bold enough, but he's too reckless for
a hunter. There was no need for that yell, now--none at all."
Having uttered this sagacious remark, he threw his rifle into the
hollow of his left arm, turned round, and strode off with a long, slow
step towards his own cottage.
Blunt was an American by birth, but of Irish extraction, and to an
attentive ear there was a faint echo of the _brogue_ in his tone,
which seemed to have been handed down to him as a threadbare and
almost worn-out heirloom.
Poor Crusoe was singed almost naked. His wretched tail seemed little
better than a piece of wire filed off to a point, and he vented his
misery in piteous squeaks as the sympathetic Varley confided him
tenderly to the care of his mother. How Fan managed to cure him no one
can tell, but cure him she did, for, in the course of a few weeks,
Crusoe was as well and sleek and fat as ever.
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