A PISTOL SHOT 
On April first at 4 p.m., I left Morro da Meza, went 
through the new railway cut in preparation, crossed the 
Paranahyba River (at an elevation of 1,970 feet above 
the sea level), and made my camp on the opposite side 
of the stream at Anhanguera elevation 2,100 feet above 
sea level) in the railway engineers’ camp, 800 yards away 
from the water. The engineers, an Italian, Mr. Schnoor’s 
father-in-law, and a Russian, a Mr. Martens, showed me 
every possible civility. A curious incident occurred while 
we were having dinner. The day was a holiday, and the 
workmen on the line were resting. We were sipping our 
coffee, when a man entered our hut and said a companion 
of his had been shot. We rushed to see him, and we found 
that the poor wretch had had his skin perforated in eight 
different places by the same bullet. What was more re¬ 
markable was that each perforation was close to a danger¬ 
ous place in the man’s anatomy, and yet not a single 
wound was mortal. This is how it happened. The man 
was lying down in his suspended hammock, resting his 
left hand on his left knee. A friend came along to show 
him a new automatic pistol he had purchased. In the 
usual silly fashion he had pointed it at the man. The 
pistol went off, and the bullet passed just under the skin 
at the knee, at the side of the knee-cap, and having come 
out again, went right through the soft part of the hand 
between the thumb and index finger. It then perforated 
the arm at the biceps, and further entering the chest, 
shaved the heart and came out at the shoulder-blade, 
continuing its flight beyond to where no one could find it 
again. That spoke highly for the penetrating power of 
bullets from automatic pistols, and also for the little harm 
those little bullets may inflict. After we had carefully 
dressed his wounds, the man looked, perhaps, a little 
miserable, but he was able to depart on horseback carrying 
a bottle of medicine under his good arm. 
The Goyaz Railway was making rapid progress. The 
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