“I’ve eat paper,” said he, at the crack of the gun, without looking, or seeming to look towards the target. “Buck-killer made a clear rocket. Where am I, gentlemen?” “You’re just between Mealy and the diamond,” was the reply. “I said I’d eat paper, and I’ve done it, havn’t I, gentlemen?” “And s’pose you have!” said Mealy, “what do that amount to? You’ll no’ win beef, and never did.” “Be that as it mout be, I’ve beat Meal ’Cotton mighty easy; and the boy you call Hiram Baugh are able to do it.” “And what do that ’mount to? Who ain’t able to beat Meal ’Cotton! I don’t make no pretence of being nothing great no how: but you always makes out as if you were gwine to keep ’em making crosses for you, constant; and then do nothin’ but eat paper at last; and that’s a long way from eating beef ’cording to Meal ’Cotton’s notions, as you call him!” Simon Stow was now called for. “Oh dear!” exclaimed two or three, “now we have it. It’ll take him as long to shoot as it would take Squire Dobbins to run a track o’land.” “Good-bye, boys,” said Bob Martin. “Where you going, Bob?” “Going to gather in my crop. I’ll be back again though by the time Sime Stow shoots.” Simon was used to all this, and therefore it did not disconcert him in the least. He went off, and brought his own target, and set it up with his own hand. He then wiped out his rifle—rubbed the pan with his hat—drew a piece of tow through the touch-hole with his wiper—filled his charger with great care—poured the powder into his rifle with equal caution—shoved with his finger the two or three vagrant grains that lodged round the mouth of his piece—took out a handful of bullets—looked them all over carefully—selected one without flaw or wrinkle—drew out his patching—found the most even part of it—sprung upon the grease-box in the breech of his rifle, greased side down—placed his ball upon it—pressed it a little—then took it up and turned the neck a little more perpendicularly downward—placed his knife-handle on it—just buried it in the mouth of the rifle—cut off the redundant patching just above the bullet—looked at it and shook his head in token that he had cut off too much or too little, no one knew which—sent down the ball—measured the contents of his gun with his first and second fingers, on the protruding part of the ramrod—shook his head again to signify that there was too much or too little powder—primed carefully—placed an arched piece of tin over the hind sight to shade it—took his piece—got a friend to hold his hat over the foresight to shade it—took a very long sight—fired, and didn’t even eat paper. “My piece was badly _load’nd_,” said Simon, when he heard the place of his ball. “Oh, you don’t take time,” said Mealy. “No man can shoot that’s in such a hurry as you is. I’d hardly got to sleep ’fore I heard the crack o’ the gun.”