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It snapped like a cap pistol and flipped halfway up to the ceiling.

He set Ralph down in front of an opening in a cardboard wall and said, “When Brad fires his cap pistol, go for the peanut butter.”

“I can bring my cap pistol for a starter’s gun,” volunteered Brad, showing interest for the first time.

My cap pistol was taken from me and, despite my tears, put out with the garbage.

After adjusting the cap pistol strapped to his hip, he took a whirling cut that brought to mind a finish-line flagman or a revolving lawn sprinkler.