The Dog Crusoe and his Master | Page 6

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 his left hand, he drew the
stopper of his powder-horn with his teeth, and poured out as much
powder as sufficed to cover the bullet. This was the regular measure
among them. Little time was lost in firing, for these men did not "hang"
on their aim. The point of the rifle was slowly raised to the object, and,
the instant the sight covered it, the ball sped to its mark. In a few
minutes the nail was encircled by bullet-holes, scarcely two of which
were more than an inch distant from the mark, and one--fired by Joe
Blunt--entered the tree close beside it.
"Ah, Joe!" said the major, "I thought you would have carried off the
prize."
"So did not I, sir," returned Blunt, with a shake of his head. "Had it
a-bin a half-dollar at a hundred yards, I'd ha' done better, but I never
could hit the nail. It's too small to see."
"That's cos ye've got no eyes," remarked Jim Scraggs, with a sneer, as
he stepped forward.
All tongues were now hushed, for the expected champion was about to
fire. The sharp crack of the rifle was followed by a shout, for Jim had
hit the nail-head on the edge, and part of the bullet stuck to it.
"That wins if there's no better," said the major, scarce able to conceal
his disappointment. "Who comes next?"
To this question Henri answered by stepping up to the line, straddling
his legs, and executing preliminary movements with his rifle, that
seemed to indicate an intention on his part to throw the weapon bodily

at the mark. He was received with a shout of mingled laughter and
applause. After gazing steadily at the mark for a few seconds, a broad
grin overspread his countenance, and, looking round at his companions,
he said--"Ha! mes boys, I cannot behold de nail at all!"
"Can ye `behold' the tree?" shouted a voice, when the laugh that
followed this announcement had somewhat abated.
"Oh! oui," replied Henri quite coolly; "I can see him, an' a goot small
bit of de forest beyond."
"Fire at it, then. If ye hit the tree ye desarve the rifle--leastwise ye
ought to get the pup."
Henri grinned again, and fired instantly, without taking aim.
The shot was followed by an exclamation of surprise, for the bullet was
found close beside the nail!
"It's more be good luck than good shootin'," remarked Jim Scraggs.
"Possiblement," answered Henri modestly, as he retreated to the rear
and wiped out his rifle; "mais I have kill most of my deer by dat same
goot luck."
"Bravo! Henri," said Major Hope as he passed; "you deserve to win,
anyhow. Who's next?"
"Dick Varley," cried several voices; "where's Varley? Come on,
youngster, an' take yer shot."
The youth came forward with evident reluctance. "It's of no manner o'
use," he whispered to Joe Blunt as he passed, "I can't depend on my old
gun."
"Never give in," whispered Blunt encouragingly. Poor Varley's want of
confidence in his rifle was