"
"I'll bet you all the liquor we can drink while we are here, Tom,"
answered Harry, "that I hit a four foot target at three hundred yards
to-morrow!"
"Off hand?" inquired Tom, with an attempt at a sneer.
"Yes, off hand! and no shot to do that either; I know men--lots of them
--who would bet to hit a foot square at that distance!"* [*When this was
written strong exception was taken to it by a Southern writer in the
Spirit of the Times. Had that gentleman known what is the practice of
the heavy Tyrolese rifle he would not have written so confidently. But
it is needless to go so far as to the Tyrol. There is a well known
rifle-shot in New York, who can perform the feat, any day, which the
Southern writer scoffed at as utterly impossible. Scrope on Deerstalking
will show to any impartial reader's satisfaction, that stags in the
Highlands are rarely killed within 200 and generally beyond 300 yards'
distance.]
"Well! you can't hit four, no how!"
"Will you bet?"
"Sartain!"
"Very well--Done--Twenty dollars I will stake against all the liquor we
drink while we're here. Is it a bet?"
"Yes! Done!" cried Tom--"at the first shot, you know; I gives no second
chances.
Pages:
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236
237
238
239
240
241
242
243
244
245
246
247
248
249
250
251
252
253