“Well, I don't mind splitting the difference; we will say forty.”
“Very well—three shots at forty yards.”
“Yes; here, Charley, run and hang my hat on that target.”
The boys rushed off with the hat—a new white one—and hung it with a bit of string over the center of one of the targets, and then, stepping a little aside, stood, clapping their hands, shouting to Mary to take good aim.
“You must string my bow,” she said, handing it to him as she buckled on her guard. “Now, do you repent? I am going to do my best, mind, if I do shoot.”
“I scorn repentance; do your worst,” said Tom, stringing the bow and handing it back to her. “And now I will hold your arrows; here is the forty yards.”
Mary came to the place which he had stepped, her eyes full of fun and mischief; and he saw at once that she knew what she was about, as she took her position and drew the first arrow. It missed the hat by some three inches only; and the boys clapped and shouted.
“Too near to be pleasant,” said Tom, handing the second arrow. “I see you can shoot.”
“Well, I will let you off still.”
“Gloves and all?”