"'A man can but do his best,'" Bob took up the tale. "Of course, I remember; you're right."
"All right," Thorne was agreeing, "but make it short. We've got a lot to do."
Ware selected another target—one intended for the six-shooters—that had not been used. This he tacked up in place of the one already disfigured by many shots. Then he paced off twelve yards.
"That looks easier than the other," Thorne commented.
"Mebbe," agreed Ware, non-committally, "but you may change your mind. As for that sort of monkey-work," he indicated the discarded target, "down our way we'd as soon shoot at a barn."
The girl softly clapped her hands.
"'For his own part,'" she quoted in a breath, and so rapidly that the words fairly tumbled over one another, "'in the land where he was bred, men would as soon take for their mark King Arthur's round table, which held sixty knights around it. A child of seven might hit yonder target with a headless shaft.' Oh, this is perfect."
"Now," said Ware to young Elliott, "if you'll hit that mark in my fashion of shooting, you're all right."
Bob turned to the girl, his eyes dancing with delight.
"'—he that hits yon mark at I-forget-how-many yards,'" he declaimed, "'I will call him an archer fit to bear bow before a king'—or something to that effect; I'm afraid I'm not letter perfect."