The sail was drawing well now and steadied the boat, also, being still
under the shelter of the land, the water was smooth as that of a pond,
so really I had a very good firing platform. Moreover, weary though I
was, my vital forces rose to the emergency and I felt myself grow
rigid as a statue. Lastly, the light was good, for the sun rose behind
me, its level rays shining full on to my mark. I held my breath and
touched the trigger. The charge exploded sweetly and almost at the
instant; as the smoke drifted to one side, I saw Komba throw up his
arms and fall backwards into the canoe. Then, quite a long while
afterwards, or so it seemed, the breeze brought the faint sound of the
thud of that fateful bullet to our ears.
Though perhaps I ought not to say so, it was really a wonderful shot
in all the circumstances, for, as I learned afterwards, the ball
struck just where I hoped that it might, in the centre of the breast,
piercing the heart. Indeed, taking everything into consideration, I
think that those four shots which I fired in Pongo-land are the real
record of my career as a marksman.
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