But the Ghoojurs had had enough of this fearful business. They saw
that some unaccountable fatality was at work and it was madness for
them to remain. With never a suspicion of the truth they wheeled their
animals about and sent them galloping for the bank which they had left
a short time before full of hope and anticipation.

"I'm sorry for that," reflected Jack Everson, "for it mixes things and
I can't pick out my man, but here goes."

In one sense, his opportunity was better than before; for, while he
could not select his particular target, he had but to aim at the bunch
to make sure of hitting somebody, which is precisely what he did.

The Ghoojur whom he punctured did not fall, for the reason that two of
his friends reached out and prevented him. It was a piece of
supererogation on their part, for when the party emerged from the
Ganges upon dry land that fellow was of no further account.

Jack now showed more haste than before in reloading his weapon, fearing
that the party would get beyond his reach before he could fire for the
fourth time. Much to his regret, they did so, for though he made the
shot, it was necessarily so hurried that it inflicted no injury, and
the whole party galloped out of sight over the slight swell without
showing any further concern for their companions left behind. Jack now
rose to his feet with the question:

"What is my record, doctor?"

"Three bull's-eyes; your score is perfect."