“I’m not sure,” said the old huntsman. “There’s nothing in the rules that says he can’t, Your Worship. We’ve never had a case like this before.”

Max was looking more and more unhappy. He looked at the referee and I could tell what he was thinking. He spat out the pea and put the coach-horn down. “No,” he said, “the Mayor’s right. This contest is too ancient and noble to be won by a peashooter; it wouldn’t be right.”

“You wouldn’t win anyway,” said the Mayor scornfully, “blowing that ridiculous trombone.”

This was too much for Eliza. “It ain’t a trombone, Mr. Mayor,” she said with great dignity, “it’s a coach-pipe.”

“Eh?” said the Mayor.

“No! Sorry! I mean, it ain’t a trompipe, it’s a coach-bone. No! I mean—”

“Never mind, Eliza, give it up,” said Max. The audience was following this with great interest; they’d taken a liking to Max and they approved of his respect for their traditions. He turned to them. “The fact is, gents,” he said, “I ain’t got a musket, owing to me britches catching fire—what I won’t go into now—but I withdraw from this contest, not wanting to undignify it, like.”

“Good for you, mate!” came a voice from the crowd.

“Lend him a musket—go on,” suggested another.

The other competitors nodded in agreement, and Rudi Gallmeyer loaded his musket and handed it to Max, who bowed to them all.

“Gentlemen,” he said, “that does you very proud. I takes my hat off to you—sportsmen, every one. Here we go, then!” He raised the musket, took aim—and what happened next isn’t easy to describe.

I think, first of all, that he must have trodden on a stone and turned his foot, because he seemed to slip sideways suddenly, and as he fell, he must have pulled the trigger; and the musket was swinging wildly through the air, so his aim wasn’t quite where it might have been. In fact, the bullet went straight into the Mayor’s hat, and that noble piece of headgear flew off the municipal head as if Doctor Cadaverezzi had put a spring in it. The Mayor clapped his hand to his bare pate with an expression of outraged amazement, which quickly turned to apprehension, for that magnificent bullet hadn’t finished yet. The next thing it did was to sever one of the ropes that held the awning up—and a great sheet of stripy canvas descended gracefully over the Mayor’s wife, who disappeared with a faint shriek.

And attached to the canvas was a stout pole, which swung down and rapped Constable Winkelburg smartly on the helmet. With a squeal of terror, he staggered forward and grabbed at the first thing he could find, to save himself. And the first thing he could find was Sergeant Snitsch’s trousers.