The sailor wriggled slightly to assure himself that he would topple over
at the right moment, and slipped the first turn over his hands.

"'Ow close?"

"Half an inch." Just then Kent heard the jarring churn of the runners
and turned his eyes to the trail. The driver was lying flat on the sled
and the dogs swinging down the straight stretch to the cabin. Kent
whirled back, bringing his rifle to shoulder.

"It ain't eight bells yet!" Cardegee expostulated. "I'll 'aunt you,
sure!"

Jacob Kent faltered. He was standing by the sun-dial, perhaps ten paces
from his victim. The man on the sled must have seen that something
unusual was taking place, for he had risen to his knees, his whip singing
viciously among the dogs.

The shadows swept into line. Kent looked along the sights.

"Make ready!" he commanded solemnly. "Eight b--"

But just a fraction of a second too soon, Cardegee rolled backward into
the hole. Kent held his fire and ran to the edge. Bang! The gun
exploded full in the sailor's face as he rose to his feet. But no smoke
came from the muzzle; instead, a sheet of flame burst from the side of
the barrel near its butt, and Jacob Kent went down. The dogs dashed up
the bank, dragging the sled over his body, and the driver sprang off as
Jim Cardegee freed his hands and drew himself from the hole.