The beef is divided into five prizes, or as they are commonly termed, five _quarters_, the hide and tallow counting as one. For several years after the revolutionary war, a sixth was added; the _lead_ which was shot in the match. This was the prize of the sixth best shot; and it used to be carefully extracted from the board, or tree, in which it was lodged, and afterwards remoulded. But this grew out of the exigency of the times, and has, I believe, been long since abandoned everywhere. The three master shots and rivals were Moses Firmby, Larkin Spivey, and Billy Curlew, to whom was added, upon this occasion, by common consent, and with awful forebodings—your humble servant. The target was fixed at an elevation of about three feet from the ground; and the judges (Captain Turner and Squire Porter) took their stands by it, joined by about half the spectators. The first name on the catalogue was Mealy Whitecotton. Mealy stept out, rifle in hand, and toed the mark. His rifle was about three inches longer than himself, and near enough his own thickness to make the remark of Darby Chisholm, as be stept out, tolerably appropriate. “Here comes the corn-stack and the sucker!” said Darby. “Kiss my foot!” said Mealy; “the way I’ll creep into that bull’s eye’s a fact.” “You’d better creep into your hind sight,” said Darby. Mealy raised and fired. “A pretty good shot, Meal,” said one. “Yes, a blamed good shot!” said a second. “Well done, Meal!” said a third. I was rejoiced when one of the company inquired, “Where is it?” for I could hardly believe they were founding these remarks upon the evidence of their senses. “Just on the right hand of the bull’s-eye,” was the reply. I looked with all the power of my eyes, but was unable to discover the least change in the surface of the paper. Their report, however, was true—so much keener is the vision of a practised than an unpractised eye. The next in order was Hiram Baugh. Hiram was like some race-horses which I have seen—he was too good not to contend for every prize, and too good-for-nothing ever to win one. “Gentlemen,” said he, as he came to the mark, “I don’t say that I’ll win beef; but if my piece don’t blow, I’ll eat the paper, or be mighty apt to do it, if you’ll believe my rocket. My powder are not good powder, gentlemen—I bought it _thum_ (from) Teb Dagget, and gin him three quarters of a dollar a pound for it; but it are not what I call good powder, gentlemen: but if old Buck-killer burns it clear, the boy you call Hiram Baugh eats paper or comes mighty near it.” “Well, blaze away!” said Mealy. “And be hanged, you and Teb Dagget, and your powder and Buck-killer, and your powder-horn and shot-pouch to boot! How long you gwine stand thar talking ’fore you shoot?” “Never mind,” said Hiram, “I can talk a little and shoot a little too; but that’s nothin’. Here goes!” Hiram assumed the figure of a note of interrogation, took a long sight, and fired.