Hal was rather surprised at the asperity with which his friend spoke. He little knew how easily acquaintance who call themselves friends can change when their interest comes in the slightest degree in competition with their friendship. Hurried by his impatient rival, and with his hands so much benumbed that he could scarcely feel how to fix the arrow in the string, he drew the bow. The arrow was within a quarter of an inch of Master Sweepstakes’ mark, which was the nearest that had yet been hit. Hal seized his second arrow. “If I have any luck—” said he. But just as he pronounced the word _luck_, and as he bent his bow, the string broke in two, and the bow fell from his hands. “There, it’s all over with you!” cried Master Sweepstakes, with a triumphant laugh. “Here’s my bow for him, and welcome,” said Ben. “No, no, sir,” said Master Sweepstakes, “that is not fair; that’s against the regulation. You may shoot with your own bow, if you choose it, or you may not, just as you think proper; but you must not lend it, sir.” It was now Ben’s turn to make his trial. His first arrow was not successful. His second was exactly as near as Hal’s first. “You have but one more,” said Master Sweepstakes—“now for it!” Ben, before he ventured his last arrow, prudently examined the string of his bow; and, as he pulled it to try its strength, it cracked. Master Sweepstakes clapped his hands with loud exultations and insulting laughter. But his laughter ceased when our provident hero calmly drew from his pocket an excellent piece of whip cord. “The everlasting whip cord, I declare!” exclaimed Hal, when he saw that it was the very same that had tied up the parcel. “Yes,” said Ben, as he fastened it to his bow, “I put it into my pocket, to-day, on purpose, because I thought I might happen to want it.” He drew his bow the third and last time. “Oh, papa!” cried little Patty, as his arrow hit the mark, “it’s the nearest; is it not the nearest?” Master Sweepstakes, with anxiety, examined the hit. There could be no doubt. Ben was victorious! The bow, the prize bow, was now delivered to him; and Hal, as he looked at the whip-cord exclaimed, “How _lucky_ this whip-cord has been to you, Ben!” “It is _lucky_, perhaps you mean, that he took care of it,” said Mr. Gresham. “Ay,” said Hal, “very true; he might well say, ‘Waste not, want not.’ It is a good thing to have two strings to one’s bow.” OLD POZ. LUCY, _daughter to the Justice_. MRS. BUSTLE, _landlady of the_ “_Saracen’s Head_.” JUSTICE HEADSTRONG. OLD MAN. WILLIAM, _a Servant_. SCENE I. _The House of Justice Headstrong_—_a hall_—_Lucy watering some myrtles_—_A servant behind the scenes is heard to say_— I TELL you my master is not up. You can’t see him, so go about your business, I say. _Lucy_. To whom are you speaking, William? Who’s that? _Will._ Only an old man, miss, with a complaint for my master.