"Never mind that; thirty-two will not execute with certainty above a hundred and fifty yards!"
"And how far in the devil's name would you have it execute, as you calls it," asked old Tom.
"Three hundred!" replied Harry, coolly.
"Thunder!" replied Draw, "don't tell me no sich thunderin' nonsense; I'll stand all day and be shot at, like a Christmas turkey, at sixty rods, for six-pence a shot, any how."
"I'll bet you all the liquor we can drink while we are here, Tom," answered Harry, "that I hit a four foot target at three hundred yards to-morrow!"
"Off hand?" inquired Tom, with an attempt at a sneer.
"Yes, off hand! and no shot to do that either; I know men--lots of them --who would bet to hit a foot square at that distance!"* [*When this was written strong exception was taken to it by a Southern writer in the Spirit of the Times. Had that gentleman known what is the practice of the heavy Tyrolese rifle he would not have written so confidently. But it is needless to go so far as to the Tyrol. There is a well known rifle-shot in New York, who can perform the feat, any day, which the Southern writer scoffed at as utterly impossible. Scrope on Deerstalking will show to any impartial reader's satisfaction, that stags in the Highlands are rarely killed within 200 and generally beyond 300 yards' distance.]
"Well! you can't hit four, no how!"
"Will you bet?"
"Sartain!"