"A pretty good shot, Mealy!" said one.

"Yes, a blamed good shot!" said a second.

"Well done, Meal!" said a third.

I was rejoiced when one of the company inquired, "Where is it?" for I
could hardly believe they were founding these remarks upon the evidence
of their senses.

"Just on the right-hand side of the bull's-eye," was the reply.

I looked with all the power of my eyes, but was unable to discover the
least change in the surface of the paper. Their report, however, was
true; so much keener is the vision of a practiced than an unpracticed
eye.

The next in order was Hiram Baugh. Hiram was like some race-horses which
I have seen; he was too good not to contend for every prize, and too
good for nothing ever to win one.

"Gentlemen," said he, as he came to the mark, "I don't say that I'll win
beef; but if my piece don't blow, I'll eat the paper, or be mighty apt
to do it, if you'll b'lieve my racket. My powder are not good powder,
gentlemen; I bought it _thum_ (from) Zeb Daggett, and gin him
three-quarters of a dollar a pound for it; but it are not what I call
good powder, gentlemen; but if old Buck-killer burns it clear, the boy
you call Hiram Baugh eat's paper, or comes mighty near it."

"Well, blaze away," said Mealy, "and be d----d to you, and Zeb Daggett,