Will laughed, and obeyed. Crack! went the rifle.
"Why," he cried, "you've hit it right in the centre! I don't suppose you could do that again in a week!"
"I'll try," Vic answered, and fired again.
"Well, upon my word!" Will shouted. "You've hit it again! What a remarkable accident!"
Vic fired again, and made a third hole in the paper.
That time Will did not say a word. He began to suspect something. Vic fired twice more, and made two more holes. The first hole was right in the centre, and the other four made a neat little circle around it.
"All right, Cousin Vic," Will said, as he handed her the paper; "I owe you one. You're a dead shot with a rifle, and you've been making a beautiful guy of me."
But Vic only laughed, and looked as timid as ever.
Next morning the sky was overcast, and Will suggested a sail in Vic's sixteen-foot sharpie.
"Don't you think it's rather rough?" she asked, looking doubtfully from the sky to the water. "Do you think it would be safe?"