right line with the cross.

Three or four followed him without bettering his shot; all of whom,
however, with one exception, "eat the paper."

It now came to Spivey's turn. There was nothing remarkable in his person
or manner. He took his place, lowered his rifle slowly from a
perpendicular until it came on a line with the mark, held it there like
a vice for a moment and fired.

"Pretty _sevigrous_, but nothing killing yet," said Billy Curlew, as he
learned the place of Spivey's ball.

Spivey's ball had just broken the upper angle of the diamond; beating
Firmby about half its width.

A few more shots, in which there was nothing remarkable, brought us to
Billy Curlew. Billy stepped out with much confidence, and brought the
Soap-stick to an order, while he deliberately rolled up his shirt
sleeves. Had I judged Billy's chance of success from the looks of his
gun, I should have said it was hopeless. The stock of Soap-stick seemed
to have been made with a case-knife; and had it been, the tool would
have been but a poor apology for its clumsy appearance. An auger-hole in
the breech served for a grease-box; a cotton string assisted a single
screw in holding on the lock; and the thimbles were made, one of brass,
one of iron, and one of tin.

"Where's Lark Spivey's bullet?" called out Billy to the judges, as he
finished rolling up his sleeves.