of what is known as
nervousness. Our birds were to be flown by hand from behind a screen,
and my first bird started off a trifle low, but fast, and I knew I was
not on with the first barrel, the hang of Stevenson's gun being not
quite the same as my own. I killed it with the second, but it struggled
over the tape.

"Lost bird!" called out Judge Reeves sharply and distinctly; and it was
evident that now he would be as decisive as he had hitherto been
deliberate.

Under the etiquette of the game no comment was made on my mishap, and my
second, Stevenson, did not make the mistake of commiserating me. No one
spoke a word as Orme stepped to the score. He killed his bird as clean
as though he had done nothing else all his life, and indeed, I think he
was half turned about from the score before the bird was down. "Dead
bird!" called the referee, with jaw closing like a steel trap.

Stevenson whispered to me this time. "Get full on with your first," he
said. "They're lead-packers--old ones, every one, and a picked lot."

I was a trifle angry with myself by this time, but it only left me well
keyed. My bird fell dead inside of Orme's. A murmur of applause ran down
the line. "Silence in the court," thundered Judge Reeves.

We shot along for ten birds, and Orme was straight, to my nine killed.
Stevenson whispered to me once more. "Take it easy, and don't be worried
about it. It's a long road to a hundred. Don't think about your next
bird, and don't worry whether he kills his or not. Just you kill 'em
one at a time and kill each one dead. You mustn't think of anything on
earth but that one bird before you."

This was excellent advice in the game, and I nodded to him. Whatever the
cause, I was by this time perfectly calm. I was now accustomed to my
gun, and had confidence in it. I knew I could shoot to the top of my
skill, and if I were beaten it would be through no fault of my own
nerves and muscles, but through the luck of the birds or the greater
skill of the other man.

Orme went on as though he could kill a hundred straight. His time was
perfect, and his style at the trap beautiful. He shot carelessly, but
with absolute confidence, and more than half the time he did not use his
second barrel.

"Old Virginia never tires," whispered Stevenson. "He'll come back to you
before long, never fear."

But Orme made it twenty straight before he came back. Then he caught a
strong right-quarterer, which escaped altogether, appare