say. Not a self-cocker. And, you'll notice it isn't cocked.
So, even if you had stuck to your lethal threat and had pulled
the trigger ever so hard, I'd still be more or less alive.
You'll excuse me for mentioning it," he ended in apology,
noting her crestfallen air. "Any novice in the art of slaying
might have done the same thing. Shooting people is an
accomplishment that improves with practice."

Coldly, she turned away, and crossed to where the collie was
beginning to weary of his fruitless efforts to climb the
shinily smooth bark of the giant gumbo-limbo. Catching him by
the collar, she said:

"Bobby! Bobby Burns! Stop that silly barking! Stop it at
once! And leave poor little Simon Cameron alone! Aren't you
ashamed?"

Now, Bobby was not in the least ashamed--except for his
failure to reach his elusive prey. But, like many highbred
and highstrung collies, he did not fancy having his collar
seized by a stranger. He did not resent the act with snarls
and a show of teeth, as in the case of the beach comber. But
he stiffened to offended dignity, and, with a sudden jerk,
freed himself from the little detaining hand.

Then, loftily, he stalked across to Gavin and thrust his
muzzle once more into the man's cupped palm. As clearly as by
a dictionary-ful of words, he had rebuked her familiarity and
had shown to whom he felt he owed sole allegiance.