"I have heard much of the rifle shooting in the United States, and have often longed to witness a specimen of the skill of its marksmen. Has your friend seen much service with that weapon?"
"He has lived in a city since he was twelve years of age," I replied, evasively, "and in cities there is not much chance to practise."
"Then he is not a skilful marksman?" cried Merriam, eagerly.
"He is fair," I replied. "In Vermont he would be called only a third-rate marksman."
"And pray, may I ask what you call a first class marksman?"
"A good rifle shot is a man who can hit a shilling piece five times out of six, standing at a distance which requires a telescope to see the money."
"And what is a third-class marksman?" asked the lieutenant, in dismay.
"He can hit the same only twice out of six times," I replied, composedly.
"The devil!" I heard my visitor mutter, between his teeth; but he was too much of an Englishman to retreat, and I fancied that he grew more and more determined when he learned that the odds were against him.
"The only matter that now remains unsettled," the lieutenant said, "is when the affair is to come off. What time do you think you shall be at leisure?"