He jerked his hat lower over his eyes, spread his feet
a little more, and got ready for the last desperate chance.
But fate was against Pop. Twenty years before he might have struck that
mark if he had been in top condition, but today, though he put his very
soul into the effort, and though the ball for the third time was lobbed
with the utmost gentleness through the air, his bullet banged vainly
against the sheet of iron and the white, inoffensive ball continued on its
way.
Words came in the throat of Pop, reached his opened mouth, and died there.
He thrust the gun back into its holster, and turned slowly toward the
crowd. There was no smile to meet his challenging eye, for Pop was a known
man, and though he might have failed to strike this elusive mark that was
no sign that he would fail to hit something six feet in height by a couple
in breadth. When he found that no mockery awaited him, a sheepish smile
began at his eyes and wandered dimly to his lips.
"Well, gents," he muttered, "I guess I ain't as young as I was once.
S'long!"
He shouldered his way to the door and was gone.
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