“You’d better creep into your hind sight,” said Darby.
Mealy raised and fired.
“A pretty good shot, Meal,” said one.
“Yes, a blamed good shot!” said a second.
“Well done, Meal!” said a third.
I was rejoiced when one of the company inquired, “Where is it?” for I could hardly believe they were founding these remarks upon the evidence of their senses.
“Just on the right hand of the bull’s-eye,” was the reply.
I looked with all the power of my eyes, but was unable to discover the least change in the surface of the paper. Their report, however, was true—so much keener is the vision of a practised than an unpractised eye.
The next in order was Hiram Baugh. Hiram was like some race-horses which I have seen—he was too good not to contend for every prize, and too good-for-nothing ever to win one.
“Gentlemen,” said he, as he came to the mark, “I don’t say that I’ll win beef; but if my piece don’t blow, I’ll eat the paper, or be mighty apt to do it, if you’ll believe my rocket. My powder are not good powder, gentlemen—I bought it thum (from) Teb Dagget, and gin him three quarters of a dollar a pound for it; but it are not what I call good powder, gentlemen: but if old Buck-killer burns it clear, the boy you call Hiram Baugh eats paper or comes mighty near it.”