“You’ve just touched the cross on the lower side,” was the reply of one of the judges. “I was afraid I was drawing my bead a _leetle_ too fine,” said Billy. “Now, Lyman, you see what the soap-stick can do. Take her, and show the boys how you used to do when you were a baby.” I begged to reserve my shot to the last; pleading, rather sophistically, that it was, in point of fact, one of Billy’s shots. My plea was rather indulged than sustained; and the marksmen who had taken more than one shot commenced the second round. This round was a manifest improvement upon the first. The cross was driven three times, once by Spivey, once by Firmby, and once by no less a personage than Mealy Whitecotton, whom chance seemed to favour for this time, merely that he might retaliate upon Hiram Baugh; and the bull’s-eye was disfigured out of all shape. The third and fourth rounds were shot. Billy discharged his last shot, which left the rights of parties thus; Billy Curlew first and fourth choice, Spivey second, Firmby third, and Whitecotton fifth. Some of my readers may be curious to learn how a distinction comes to be made between several, all of whom drive the cross. The distinction is perfectly natural and equitable. Threads are stretched from the uneffaced parts of the once interesting lines, by means of which the original position of the cross is precisely ascertained. Each bullet-hole being nicely pegged up as it is made, it is easy to ascertain its circumference. To this, I believe, they usually, if not invariably, measure where none of the balls touch the cross; but if the cross be driven, they measure from it to the centre of the bullet hole. To make a draw shot, therefore, between two who drive the cross, it is necessary that the centre of both balls should pass directly through the cross—a thing that very rarely happens. The _bite_ alone remained to shoot. Billy wiped out his rifle carefully, loaded her to the top of his skill, and handed her to me. “Now,” said he, “Lyman, draw a fine bead, but not too fine; for soap-stick bears up her ball well. Take care, and don’t touch the trigger until you’ve got your bead; for she’s spring-triggered, and goes mighty easy; but you hold her to the place you want her, and if she don’t go there, dang old Roper.” I took old soap-stick, and lapsed immediately into the most hopeless despair. I’m sure I never handled as heavy a gun in all my life. “Why, Billy,” said I, “you little mortal, you! what do you use such a gun as this, for?” “Look at the bull’s-eye, yonder,” said he. “True,” said I; “but I can’t shoot her—it is impossible.” “Go ’long, you old coon,” said Billy; “I see what you’re at.” (Intimating that all this was merely to make the coming shot the more remarkable.) “Daddy’s little boy don’t shoot anything but the old soap-stick, here, to-day, I know.”