Simon Stow was now called on.

"Oh, Lord!" exclaimed two or three: "now we have it. It'll take him as
long to shoot as it would take 'Squire Dobbins to run round a _track_ o'
land."

"Good-by, boys," said Bob Martin.

"Where are you going, Bob?"

"Going to gather in my crop; I'll be back again though by the time Sime
Stow shoots."

Simon was used to all this, and therefore it did not disconcert him in
the least. He went off and brought his own target, and set it up with
his own hand.

He then wiped out his rifle, rubbed the pan with his hat, drew a piece
of tow through the touch-hole with his wiper, filled his charger with
great care, poured the powder into the rifle with equal caution, shoved
in with his finger the two or three vagrant grains that lodged round the
mouth of his piece, took out a handful of bullets, looked them all over
carefully, selected one without flaw or wrinkle, drew out his patching,
found the most even part of it, sprung open the grease-box in the breech
of his rifle; took up just so much grease, distributed it with great
equality over the chosen part of his patching, laid it over the muzzle
of his rifle, grease side down, placed his ball upon it, pressed it a
little, then took it up and turned the neck a little more
perpendicularly downward, placed his knife handle on it, just buried it
in the mouth of the rifle, cut off the redundant patching just above the