AWFULLY ponderous as the words struck upon the tightened drum of Tom's auriculars, they still tended to arouse his fainting spirit.

“Mer-mer-mercy on us!” ejaculated he, and shrank back a pace or two, still keeping his dilating optics fixed upon the horrible spectre.

“D'ye want a pound of magic shot?” repeated Jim Smith.

“Mur-mur-der!” screamed Tom; and, mechanically raising his gun for action of some kind appeared absolutely necessary to keep life within him, he aimed at the Tempter, trembling in every joint.

Jim, who had as usual never calculated upon such a turning of the tables, threw off his head—his assumed one, of course, and, leaping from the stile, cried aloud—

“Oh! Tom, don't shoot—don't shoot!—it's only me—Jim Smith!”

Down dropped the gun from the sportsman's grasp.

“Oh! you fool! you—you—considerable fool!” cried he, supporting himself on a neighbouring hawthorn, which very kindly and considerately lent him an arm on the occasion. “It's a great mercy—a very great mercy, Jim—as we wasn't both killed!—another minute, only another minute, and—but it won't bear thinking on.”

“Forgive me, Tom,” said the penitent joker; “I never was so near a corpse afore. If I didn't think the shots were clean through me, and that's flat.”

“Sich jokes,” said Tom, “is onpardonable, and you must be mad.”

“I confess I'm out of my head, Tom,” said Jim, who was dangling the huge mask in his hand, and fast recovering from the effects of his fright. “Depend on it, I won't put myself in such a perdicament again, Tom. No, no—no more playing the devil; for, egad! you had liked to have played the devil with me.”

“A joke's a joke,” sagely remarked Tom, picking up his hat and fowling piece.

“True!” replied Smith; “but, I think, after all, I had the greatest cause for being in a fright. You had the best chance, at any rate; for I could not have harmed you, whereas you might have made a riddle of me.”

“Stay, there!” answered Tom; “I can tell you, you had as little cause for fear as I had, you come to that; for the truth is, the deuce a bit of powder or shot either was there in the piece!”

“You don't say so!” said Jim, evidently disappointed and chop-fallen at this discovery of his groundless fears. “Well, I only wish I'd known it, that's all!”—then, cogitating inwardly for a minute, he continued—“but, I say, Tom, you won't mention this little fright of yours?”

“No; but I'll mention the great fright—of Jim Smith—rely upon it,” said Tom, firmly; and he kept his word so faithfully, that the next day the whole story was circulated, with many ingenious additions, to the great annoyance of the practical joker.