Arthur Nevins hit right on the third ring. None of them, however, struck the bull’s eye. It was now the turn of James. His first ball struck within the innermost circle, and about half-way from that to the bull’s eye; and the second he planted directly in the central dot, and covered it all over. They all shouted,—
“You can’t do that again.”
Upon which he plumped another on the second. None of the boys except James hit the centre, but very few within the second ring; and they were blowing their fingers, and beginning to tire of the sport, when Sam Kingsbury, pointing upwards, shouted,—
“Only look there!”
Following the direction of his finger, they saw an owl of the largest size (that had been overtaken by daylight before he could reach his roosting-place) sitting upon the branch of a large oak, motionless, and apparently lost in meditation, and entirely regardless of the uproar beneath.
“If anybody had a gun,” said Arthur Nevins. “I wonder if there’s time to run home and get mine before school begins.”
“No,” said Peter, “and if you should, perhaps you’d miss him; but I’ll bet James’ll take him with a snowball.”
“I could with a good stone, but I don’t think I can with a snowball; for I never threw a snowball in my life before to-day.”
James searched the stone wall of the pasture, but could find no stone to suit him, and urged by the boys to try, made three snowballs as hard as he could, with a small stone in the centre of each. The first ball brushed the feathers of the philosophical bird, and broke the thread of his meditations; but as he was gathering himself up to fly, a second struck him with such force under the wing as to bring him down half stunned into the snow, and before he could recover himself Ned Conly flung his cap over his head and caught him.
“Give him to me, will you, Ned?” said Bertie.