The Dog Crusoe and His Master | Page 6

"Agreed," cried the men.
"Well, then, wipe your guns and draw lots. Henri will fix the nail. Here
it is."
The individual who stepped, or rather plunged forward to receive the
nail was a rare and remarkable specimen of mankind. Like his
comrades, he was half a farmer and half a hunter. Like them, too, he
was clad in deerskin, and was tall and strong--nay, more, he was
gigantic. But, unlike them, he was clumsy, awkward, loose-jointed, and
a bad shot. Nevertheless Henri was an immense favourite in the
settlement, for his good-humour knew no bounds. No one ever saw him
frown. Even when fighting with the savages, as he was sometimes
compelled to do in self-defence, he went at them with a sort of jovial
rage that was almost laughable. Inconsiderate recklessness was one of
his chief characteristics, so that his comrades were rather afraid of him
on the war-trail or in the hunt, where caution and frequently soundless
motion were essential to success or safety. But when Henri had a
comrade at his side to check him he was safe enough, being
humble-minded and obedient. Men used to say he must have been born
under a lucky star, for, notwithstanding his natural inaptitude for all

sorts of backwoods life, he managed to scramble through everything
with safety, often with success, and sometimes with credit.
To see Henri stalk a deer was worth a long day's journey. Joe Blunt
used to say he was "all jints together, from the top of his head to the
sole of his moccasin." He threw his immense form into the most
inconceivable contortions, and slowly wound his way, sometimes on
hands and knees, sometimes flat, through bush and brake, as if there
was not a bone in his body, and without the slightest noise. This sort of
work was so much against his plunging nature that he took long to
learn it; but when, through hard practice and the loss of many a fine
deer, he came at length to break himself in to it, he gradually
progressed to perfection, and ultimately became the best stalker in the
valley. This, and this alone, enabled him to procure game, for, being
short-sighted, he could hit nothing beyond fifty yards, except a buffalo
or a barn-door.
Yet that same lithe body, which seemed as though totally unhinged,
could no more be bent, when the muscles were strung, than an iron post.
No one wrestled with Henri unless he wished to have his back broken.
Few could equal and none could beat him at running or leaping except
Dick Varley. When Henri ran a race even Joe Blunt laughed outright,
for arms and legs went like independent flails. When he leaped, he
hurled himself into space with a degree of violence that seemed to
insure a somersault; yet he always came down with a crash on his feet.
Plunging was Henri's forte. He generally lounged about the settlement
when unoccupied, with his hands behind his back, apparently in a
reverie, and when called on to act, he seemed to fancy he must have
lost time, and could only make up for it by plunging. This habit got him
into many awkward scrapes, but his herculean power as often got him
out of them. He was a French-Canadian, and a particularly bad speaker
of the English language.
We offer no apology for this elaborate introduction of Henri, for he was
as good-hearted a fellow as ever lived, and deserves special notice.
But to return. The sort of rifle practice called "driving the nail," by
which this match was to be decided, was, and we believe still is,

common among the hunters of the far west. It consisted in this: an
ordinary large-headed nail was driven a short way into a plank or a tree,
and the hunters, standing at a distance of fifty yards or so, fired at it
until they succeeded in driving it home. On the present occasion the
major resolved to test their shooting by making the distance seventy
yards.
Some of the older men shook their heads.
"It's too far," said one; "ye might as well try to snuff the nose o' a
mosquito."
"Jim Scraggs is the only man as'll hit that," said another.
The man referred to was a long, lank, lantern-jawed fellow, with a
cross-grained expression of countenance. He used the long, heavy
Kentucky rifle, which, from the ball being little larger than a pea, was
called a pea-rifle. Jim was no favourite, and had been named Scraggs
by his companions on account of his appearance.
In a few minutes the lots were drawn, and the shooting began. Each
hunter wiped out the barrel of his piece with his ramrod as he stepped
forward; then, placing a ball in the palm of