“No great harm done yet,” said Spivey, manifestly relieved from anxiety by an event which seemed to me better calculated to produce despair.
Firmby’s ball had cut the lower angle of the diamond, directly on a right line with the cross.
Three or four followed him without bettering his shot; all of whom, however, with one exception, “eat the paper.”
It now came to Spivey’s turn. There was nothing remarkable in his person or manner. He took his place, lowered his rifle slowly from a perpendicular, until it came on a line with the mark—held it there like a vise for a moment, and fired.
“Pretty seoigrous, but nothing killing yet,” said Billy Curlew, as he learned the place of Spivey’s ball.
Spivey’s ball had just broken the upper angle of the diamond, beating Firmby about half its width.
A few more shots, in which there was nothing remarkable, brought us to Billy Curlew. Billy stept out with much confidence, and brought the soap-stick to an order, while he deliberately rolled up his shirt sleeves. Had I judged Billy’s chance by the looks of his gun, I should have said it was hopeless. The stock of soap-stick seemed to have been made with a case-knife, and had it been, the tool would have been but a poor apology for its clumsy appearance.
An augur hole in the breech served for a grease-box, a cotton string assisted a single screw in holding on the lock, and the thimbles were made, one of brass, one of iron, and one of tin.
“Where’s Lark Spivey’s bullet?” called out Billy to the judges, as he finished rolling up his sleeves.
“About three quarters of an inch from the cross,” was the reply.