The potato was thrown, Jasper fired, and the shout that followed preceded the announcement of the fact that he had driven his bullet through its centre, or so nearly so as to merit that award.
“Here is a competitor worthy of you, Pathfinder,” cried Major Duncan with delight, as the former took his station; “and we may look to some fine shooting in the double trial.”
“What a thing is mortal man!” repeated the hunter, scarcely seeming to notice what was passing around him, so much were his thoughts absorbed in his own reflections. “Toss!”
The potato was tossed, the rifle cracked,—it was remarked just as the little black ball seemed stationary in the air, for the marksman evidently took unusual heed to his aim,—and then a look of disappointment and wonder succeeded among those who caught the falling target.
“Two holes in one?” called out the Major.
“The skin, the skin!” was the answer; “only the skin!”
“How's this, Pathfinder? Is Jasper Eau-douce to carry off the honors of the day?”
“The calash is his,” returned the other, shaking his head and walking quietly away from the stand. “What a creature is mortal man! never satisfied with his own gifts, but for ever craving that which Providence denies!”
As Pathfinder had not buried his bullet in the potato, but had cut through the skin, the prize was immediately adjudged to Jasper. The calash was in the hands of the latter when the Quartermaster approached, and with a polite air of cordiality he wished his successful rival joy of his victory.
“But now you've got the calash, lad, it's of no use to you,” he added; “it will never make a sail, nor even an ensign. I'm thinking, Eau-douce, you'd no' be sorry to see its value in good siller of the king?”