I now, of course, determined to reverse the mode of firing, and put forth all my physical energies to raise soap-stick to the mark. The effort silenced Billy, and gave tongue to his companions. I had just strength enough to master soap-stick’s obstinate proclivity, and consequently my nerves began to exhibit palpable signs of distress with her first imperceptible movement upward.
A trembling commenced in my arms, increased and extended rapidly to my body and lower extremities, so that, by the time I brought soap-stick up to the mark, I was shaking from head to foot, exactly like a man under the continued action of a strong galvanic battery. In the meantime, my friends gave vent to their feelings freely.
“I swear, point blank,” said one, “that man can’t shoot.”
“He used to shoot well,” said another; “but can’t now, nor never could.”
“You better git away from ’bout that mark,” bawled a third; “for I’ll be d——d if Broadcloth don’t give some of you the dry gripes, if you stand too close there.”
“The stranger’s got the Peedoddles,” said a fourth, with humorous gravity.
“If he had bullets enough in his gun, he’d shoot a ring round the bull’s-eye, big as a spinning-well,” said a fifth.
As soon as I found that soap-stick was high enough (for I made no further use of the sights, than to ascertain this fact), I pulled the trigger, and off she went.
I have always found the most creditable way of relieving myself of derision, was to heighten it myself as much as possible. It is a good plan in all circles, but by far the best which can be adopted among the plain, rough farmers of the country. Accordingly, I brought old soap-stick to an order with an air of triumph, tipped Billy the wink, and observed:
“Now Billy’s your time to make your fortune. Bet ’em two to one that I’ve knocked out the cross.”