All tongues were now hushed, for the expected champion was about to fire. The sharp crack of the rifle was followed by a shout, for Jim had hit the nail-head on the edge, and part of the bullet stuck to it.
“That wins if there’s no better,” said the major, scarce able to conceal his disappointment. “Who comes next?”
To this question Henri answered by stepping up to the line, straddling his legs, and executing preliminary movements with his rifle, that seemed to indicate an intention on his part to throw the weapon bodily at the mark. He was received with a shout of mingled laughter and applause. After gazing steadily at the mark for a few seconds, a broad grin overspread his countenance, and, looking round at his companions, he said—“Ha! mes boys, I cannot behold de nail at all!”
“Can ye ‘behold’ the tree?” shouted a voice, when the laugh that followed this announcement had somewhat abated.
“Oh! oui,” replied Henri quite coolly; “I can see him, an’ a goot small bit of de forest beyond.”
“Fire at it, then. If ye hit the tree ye desarve the rifle—leastwise ye ought to get the pup.”
Henri grinned again, and fired instantly, without taking aim.
The shot was followed by an exclamation of surprise, for the bullet was found close beside the nail!
“It’s more be good luck than good shootin’,” remarked Jim Scraggs.
“Possiblement,” answered Henri modestly, as he retreated to the rear and wiped out his rifle; “mais I have kill most of my deer by dat same goot luck.”