"He's a cursed good shot," said Fred. "Would you like to send for Keegan before you go out?"
"Keegan be d——d!" said George; "but have Blake by, for he'll wing you as sure as Moses."
"May be not," said Fred. "Webb's a d——d good shot in a gallery; but may be he won't allow for the wind on the sod; but it'll be as well to have the sawbones."
"No fear of your legs, governor, for he'll fire high. The shoulder's his spot; you may always tell from a man's eye where he'll fix the sight of a pistol. Webb always looks up. If his tool lifts a little, he'll fire over you."
"Yes, he might," said Fred; "or take you on the head—which wouldn't be so pleasant. I'm not particular—but I'd better run my chance myself with a chap that fired low."
"There you're out," answered the brother. "The low shot's the death-shot. Why man, if you did catch a ball in the head, you'd get over it—if it was in the mouth, or cheek, or neck, or anywhere but the temple; but your body's all over tender bits. May heaven always keep lead out of my bowels—I'd sooner have it in my brains."
The father fidgetted about very uneasily whilst enduring these pleasant remarks from his affectionate children, which, it is needless to say, they made for his particular comfort and amusement at the present moment. At last he lost his temper, and exclaimed—
"D—— your brains, you fool—I don't believe you've got any! what's the use of the two of you going on that way—you that were never out in your life. I tell you when a man's standing to be fired at, he doesn't know, nine times in ten, whether he fires high or low. Who'll I get to go out with me?"
"Yes, and take your message," said Fred; "you've a deal to do yet before you're snug home again."
"Well, who'll I get to go to him?"