"I shoot-a more good dat. You no shoot-a straight; no hit middle." His tone was not boastful; he merely dropped the remark as an unimpassioned statement of fact. Peter had raised the rifle to his shoulder; he lowered it again to stare. "What are ye givin' us?" he demanded. "Ye think ye can shoot better'n me?" Vittorio shrugged. He had no desire to hurt Peter's feelings, but at the same time he saw no occasion to lie. "Course I shoot-a more good dat," he responded genially. "I shoot-a long time. You no learn how like-a me." "Here," said Peter, stretching the rifle toward the man, "let me see ye do it, then! Either put up or shut up. I'll show ye that it ain't so easy as it looks." Vittorio sprang to his feet with an air of surprised delight. "You let-a me shoot? Sank you! Sank you ver' moch." He took the rifle in his hand and caressed the barrel with a touch almost loving. His eyes were eager as a child's. "Here, you, Tony," Peter warned, "don't get funny with that gun! Point it at the target." Vittorio raised the rifle and squinted along the barrel; then, as an idea occurred to him, he lowered it again and faced the three men with his always sunny smile. He had a sporting proposition to make. "You shoot-a more good me, my name Tony. I shoot-a more good you, my name Vittorio Emanuele, same-a de king. You call me Vittorio, I understand, I come; you call me Tony, I no understand, no come." Peter, whatever his prejudices, was true to his ideals. "It's a bargain, Tony. Ye beat me shootin' and I'll call ye any bloomin' thing ye please--providin' I can twist me tongue to it." Vittorio's eyes sought Patrick's. He removed the pipe from his mouth and grunted. "All-a right!" said Vittorio. "We shoot-a free time. First me, den you, den you, den me again, like dat." Without more ado he threw the gun to his shoulder, and, scarcely seeming to sight, fired, and snapped out the empty cartridge. As the smoke cleared the three strained forward in open-mouthed astonishment. He had hit the target squarely in the centre. "By gum! he's done it!" Peter gasped; then, after an astonished silence, "Nothin' but luck--he can't do it again. Gi' me the gun." Peter's surprise had not steadied his nerves; his shot went far astray, and he silently passed the rifle to Patrick. Patrick laid down his pipe, planted his feet firmly, and made the inner ring. He passed the rifle on to Vittorio, and resumed his pipe. Patrick was a phlegmatic soul; it took a decided shock to rouse him to words. "Let's see ye do it again," said Peter. Vittorio raised the rifle and did it again. His manner was entirely composed; he scored bull's-eyes as a matter of course. Peter's feelings by now were too complicated for words. He studied the nonchalant Vittorio a moment in baffled bewilderment, then stepped forward without remark to take his turn. He sighted long and carefully, and scored the outer ring. He offered the rifle to Patrick, who waved it away. "I'm out."