Ephraim Gallup came forward in his turn with a queer grin on his thin, homely face. “Gol darned if I don’t feel ez if I could shoot this thing clean through that old tree!” he muttered, as he fitted an arrow to the bow. “Do you shoot at the thing, er over it?” “Over it,” said Merriwell. “In shooting so great a distance you must allow for the trajectory, or curve. If you don’t, your arrow will drop below.” Merriwell smiled as he said this, for he had already given Gallup careful instructions and had seen the boy from Vermont make some good shots. Though Gallup stood in an awkward position, he drew the arrow with care. It was seen to strike near the center of the target, and then the marker called: “In the red—seven.” “Good for you!” cried Diamond. “That’s two better than I did.” “Somebody’s got to hustle ef they beat us this day, an’ don’t yeou fergit it,” said Gallup, that queer grin still on his face. Ward Hammond faced the target with a confident air. He was a good shot with the bow, and was well aware of the fact. “In the gold—nine!” cried the marker, as Hammond’s arrow struck, and then the Blue Mountain boys sent up a cheer. Merriwell followed, and let slip the arrow with a steady hand. “In the gold—nine!” cried the marker, again, almost before Hammond’s friends had ceased their cheering, and then it was the turn of Merriwell’s followers. Toots would not shoot, excusing himself by saying he knew he would kill somebody if he did, and when Dunnerwust came again to the scratch there was a cautious widening of the semicircle gathered about the archers. Hans came near shooting himself, this time, for the arrow slipped, while he was trying to fit it to the string, and flew skyward, past his nose. “Look oudt!” Hans squawked. “Uf dot comes down your head on, I vill ged hurt!” It fell near Gallup, who stepped nimbly to one side as it descended. “Look here, b’jee!” he growled. “If you’ve got a grutch agin’ me, say so, but don’t go shootin’ arrers at me zif you was an’ Injun an’ me a Pilgrum Father.” “Oxcuse me!” supplicated the Dutch boy. “Dot string slipped der arrow py ven I dry to fix him. Shust eferypoty stant avay off, now, so I vill nod ged hurted.” The semicircle widened this time to a very respectable distance. Hans spat on his hands, grasped the plush handle in the middle of the bow, fitted the arrow and drew it down with exceeding care. When he had sighted with his open right eye till every one was growing impatient, he let the bowstring slip. “In the white—one!” shouted the marker. In all his practice Hans had never before struck an arrow in the target, and he was so pleased now that he fairly hugged himself with delight. “Vot vos id you tolt me?” he cried, in great elation. “We peen goin’ to vin dis game so easy as falling a log off!” “Yes, it’s won!” said Hammond, with a perceptible sneer. “There is no doubt, Dutchy, that you’re a shooter from Shootville. If you hit the white again, it will count two.”