A bullet of that size would sink a ship,
he meditated in a panic, and as for his foot--what frightful
execution it would work! But--it were better to lose a foot than
a foot-race, under present conditions, so he began to unlace his
shoe. Then realizing the value of circumstantial evidence, he
paused. No! His disability must bear all the earmarks of an
accident. He must guess the location of his smallest and least
important toe, and trust the rest to his marksmanship. Visions of
blood-poisoning beset him, and when he pressed the muzzle against
the point of his shoe his hand shook with such a palsy that he
feared he might miss. He steeled himself with the thought that
other men had snuffed out life itself in this manner, then sat
down upon the floor and cocked the weapon a second time. He
wondered if the shock might, by any chance, numb him into
unconsciousness. If so, he might bleed to death before assistance
arrived. But he had nothing to do with that. The only question
was, which foot. He regarded them both tenderly. They were nice
feet, and had done him many favors.
Pages:
180
181
182
183
184
185
186
187
188
189
190
191
192
193
194
195
196
197
198
199
200
201
202
203
204