The gentlemen, and Max also, took their turns, and the girls watched them with a feeling akin to envy at their superior skill. Max was a very respectable shot, Mr. Short still better, while the captain showed uncommon dexterity.
“As I ought,” he said, laughingly, when complimented on it, “that being a part of my profession.”
At length they had all had enough of it, and putting up their empty pistols, returned to the house.
They seated themselves in the shaded porch, and had hardly done so when they were joined by Mr. Austin and Albert.
“I heard some one say you were target-shooting,” remarked Albert to Max, “and that the captain hit the center of the mark every time.”
“So he did,” said Max, “but shooting at a target is nothing to papa; he shoots a bird on the wing. Indeed, I’ve seen him bring down several of a flock with one shot; also throw up two potatoes and send a bullet through them both before they reached the ground.”
“I’d like very much to see him do that last,” Albert said, “though I don’t in the least doubt your word; especially as all the men about here who have hunted with him say he’s a capital shot.”
At that Max turned to Sandy McAlpine, standing near, and asked if he could get him two potatoes.
“Cooked or raw?” asked the boy.
“Raw, of course,” laughed Max, “and I’ll hand them back when I’m done with them. I don’t think they’ll be hurt much for cooking and eating.”