"Touch and go, sir. He'll never be nearer pegging out than he was this
afternoon; for he scraped the gates of his family buryin'-place, in a
manner of speakin.' It went clean through his hat--rim and crown."

"Did he know his luck?"

"Nobody better."

"He looked more than average queer as we trotted home. I thought he was
digesting your little bill, Raffles."

"No; he only owes me a matter of shillin's. But I could say that I
ticketed the gun at £5 or £6, when the old shooter wasn't worth----"

"Fifteen bob," said Acton, looking at the worn barrel.

"See where I have--where you have--the youngster tied neatly up? He owes
me--or you--seven, eight, nine pounds, or any fancy figure I--or you--
like to mention for that old piece of iron there."

"Raffles, we're in luck! Luck has served me better than all your downy
work."

"It has," said that bright specimen of humanity, regretfully. "I can't
pretend that I'd any hand in the blowing out of them blessed barrels."

"All right, Raffles; don't weep. You'd have done it, of course, if you'd
thought about it," said Acton, with a curious sneer; "but this is my
plan--as far as you're concerned. When young Bourne comes, you're to ask
for £7 10s. And you're to be an adamantine Jew; you're to have the money