"Look out, Pat! It ain't safe to stand behind him; he's likely to hit 'most anything except the mark."
Billy good-naturedly retired and engaged himself in keeping score. The rivalry between Peter and Patrick was keen. The latter was the older hand at rifle-shooting, but Peter was the younger man and possessed the keener eye. As soon as they became accustomed to their distance they pulled into line, and the contest grew spirited. Presently Vittorio, a garden hoe in hand, came loping across the meadow, attracted by the shots. When he saw what was toward, he dropped down on the bank and interestedly watched the match. Patrick had been ahead, but his last shot went wild and splashed the water to the left of the target. Peter made the inner ring and pulled the score up even. He was in an elated frame of mind.
"Hello, Tony!" he called with unwonted affability as he paused to reload. "See that shot? Pretty near hit the bull's-eye. You don't know how to shoot—no? Eye-talians use knives. Americans use guns."
Vittorio smiled back, pleased at being so freely included in the conversation.
"I shoot-a more good dat. You no shoot-a straight; no hit middle." His tone was not boastful; he merely dropped the remark as an unimpassioned statement of fact.
Peter had raised the rifle to his shoulder; he lowered it again to stare.
"What are ye givin' us?" he demanded. "Ye think ye can shoot better'n me?"
Vittorio shrugged. He had no desire to hurt Peter's feelings, but at the same time he saw no occasion to lie.
"Course I shoot-a more good dat," he responded genially. "I shoot-a long time. You no learn how like-a me."