“It _might_ be anything,” said I, with borrowed wit; for I knew my man, and knew what kind of conversation would please him most. “Well, what _is_ it then?” “It _is_ Hall,” said I; “but, you know, it might as well have been anything else.” “Pretty digging,” said he, “I find you’re not the fool I took you to be; so here’s to a better acquaintance with you.” “With all my heart,” returned I; “but you must be as clever as I’ve been, and give me your name.” “To be sure I will, my old ’coon; take it, take it, and welcome. Anything else about me you’d like to have?” “No,” said I, “there’s nothing else about you worth having.” “Oh yes, there is, stranger. Do you see this?” holding up his ponderous rifle with an ease that astonished me. “If you will go with me to the shooting-match, and see me knock out the _bull’s_-eye with her a few times, you’ll agree the old _soap-stick_’s worth something when Billy Curlew puts his shoulder to her.” This short sentence was replete with information to me: it taught me that my companion was Billy Curlew; that he was going to a _shooting-match_; that he called his rifle the _soap-stick_; and that he was very confident of winning beef with her; or, which is nearly, but not quite the same thing—_driving the cross with her_. “Well,” said I, “if the shooting-match is not too far out of my way, I’ll go to it with pleasure.” “Unless your way lies through the woods from here,” said Billy, “it’ll not be much out of your way; for it’s only a mile a-head of us, and there’s no other road for you to take till you get there; and as that thing you’re riding in, ain’t well suited to fast travelling among bushy knobs, I reckon you won’t lose much by going by. I reckon you hardly ever was at a shooting-match, stranger, from the cut of your coat?” “Oh yes,” returned I, “many a time. I won beef at one, when I was hardly old enough to hold a shot-gun off-hand.” “Children don’t go to shooting-matches about here,” said he, with a smile of incredulity. “I never heard of but one that did, and he was a little _swinge-cat_. He was born a-shooting, and killed squirrels before he was weaned.” “Nor did I ever hear of but one,” replied I, “and that one was myself.” “And where did you win beef so young, stranger?” “At Berry Adam’s.” “Why stop, stranger, let me look at you. Good. Is your name Lyman Hall?” “The very same,” said I. “Well, dang my buttons, if you ain’t the very boy my daddy used to tell me about! I was too young to recollect you myself; but I’ve heard daddy talk about you many a-time. I believe mammy’s got a neck-handkerchief now that daddy won on your shooting at Collen Reid’s store, when you were hardly knee-high. Come along, Lyman, and I’ll go my death upon you at the shooting-match, with the old soap-stick at your shoulder.”