“I didn’t bring no gun, an’ I won’t do no shoot’n,” remarked Bill. “It wouldn’t be dignified fer me as head of the club, an’ it wouldn’t be fair fer the rest fer me to shoot. It ’ud be like swip’n candy from little boys.” As Bill had not been known to kill anything with a gun for over twenty years, his explanation was accepted without comment. Mr. Joshua T. Varney appeared at this stage of the proceedings, and offered to take two dollars’ worth of chances and pay three dollars premium if he could have the first trial and twenty successive shots. As it usually took a great many shots to hit a turkey’s head at fifty yards, his proposition was accepted after some discussion. “Josh” Varney was a traveling salesman, who for several years had periodically visited Posey’s store, on his rounds through the county, and sold supplies adapted to the general country trade. He was a smooth faced man of about forty, with keen gray eyes, a good story teller, and from him radiated the assurance and suavity of his kind. He had always been a “good mixer,” and was considered an all around good fellow. He had joined the club two years before, but had never attended a “shoot.” He went to his buggy, that stood near the roadside among numerous other vehicles, and returned with a small repeating rifle. He then stepped over to the rope and began shooting at the bobbing heads above the boxes. In this way hundreds of venerable gobblers and dignified hen turkeys had lost their lives in past years through innocent curiosity as to the doings of the outside world. The birds were all dead when Mr. Varney had fired fourteen times. Quiet but well chosen profanity troubled the air when the tenth bird succumbed and the performance was ended. Bill again belabored the board and announced the end of the contest. “Gentlemen, you prob’ly notice that the shoot’n’s all over! Sump’n has been done unto us, an’ somebody has had an elegant pastime. This ain’t been no turkey shoot, it’s been a horr’ble massacre, an’ after this all Deadwood Dicks’ll be barred, unless they git a mile away when they shoot at anything ’round ’ere. We better kill our turkeys with axes after this, an’ only sell the chance o’ one whopp. We ain’t got but one booby prize, an’ I guess you all better take turns blowin’ on it. This ain’t been no kind of a day, an’ it’s come to a sad end. The club’ll now perceed to its annual business, an’ as the day is nice an’ warm we might as well do it out doors ’stid o’ goin’ in an’ muss’n up the church. Sophy, what you got on the fire that ’as to be ’tended to?” “They ain’t no business that I can’t ’tend to myself,” replied Sophy grimly. “The treasurer’s report’s been left home by accident, an’ they ain’t nuth’n else to come up, ’less somebody wants to pay dues, or you want to ’lect some new members.”