h his first and second fingers on the
protruding part of the ramrod, shook his head again, to signify there
was too much or too little powder, primed carefully, placed an arched
piece of tin over the hind sight to shade it, took his place, got a
friend to hold his hat over the foresight to shade it, took a very long
sight, fired, and didn't even eat the paper.

"My piece was badly _loadned_," said Simon, when he learned the place of
his ball.

"Oh, you didn't take time," said Mealy. "No man can shoot that's in such
a hurry as you is. I'd hardly got to sleep 'fore I heard the crack o'
the gun."

The next was Moses Firmby. He was a tall, slim man, of rather sallow
complexion; and it is a singular fact, that though probably no part of
the world is more healthy than the mountainous parts of Georgia, the
mountaineers have not generally robust frames or fine complexions: they
are, however, almost inexhaustible by toil.

Moses kept us not long in suspense. His rifle was already charged, and
he fixed it upon the target with a steadiness of nerve and aim that was
astonishing to me and alarming to all the rest. A few seconds, and the
report of his rifle broke the deathlike silence which prevailed.

"No great harm done yet," said Spivey, manifestly relieved from anxiety
by an event which seemed to me better calculated to produce despair.
Firmby's ball had cut out the lower angle of the diamond, directly on a
right line with the cross.

Three or four followed him without bettering his shot; all of whom,
however, with one exception, "eat the paper."

It now came to Spivey's turn. There was nothing remarkable in his person
or manner. He took his place, lowered his rifle slowly from a
perpendicular until it came on a line with the mark, held it there like
a vice for a moment and fired.

"Pretty _sevigrous_, but nothing killing yet," said Billy Curlew, as he
learned the place of Spivey's ball.

Spivey's ball had just broken the upper angle of the diamond; beating
Firmby about half its width.

A few more shots, in which there was nothing remarkable, brought us to
Billy Curlew. Billy stepped out with much confidence, and brought the
Soap-stick to an order, while he deliberately rolled up his shirt
sleeves. Had I judged Billy's chance of success from the looks of his
gun, I should have said it was hopeless. The stock of Soap-stick seemed
to have been made with a case-knife; and had it been, the tool would
have been but a poor