"About three-quarters of an inch from the cross," was the reply.

"Well, clear the way! the Soap-stick's coming, and she'll be along in
there among 'em presently."

Billy now planted himself astraddle, like an inverted V; shot forward
his left hip, drew his body back to an angle of about forty-five degrees
with the plane of the horizon, brought his cheek down close to the
breech of old Soap-stick, and fixed her upon the mark with untrembling
hand. His sight was long, and the swelling muscles of his left arm led
me to believe that he was lessening his chance of success with every
half second that he kept it burdened with his ponderous rifle; but it
neither flagged nor wavered until Soap-stick made her report.

"Where am I?" said Billy, as the smoke rose from before his eye.

"You've jist touched the cross on the lower side," was the reply of one
of the judges.

"I was afraid I was drawing my bead a _leetle_ too fine," said Billy.
"Now, Lyman, you see what the Soap-stick can do. Take her, and show the
boys how you used to do when you was a baby."

I begged to reserve my shot to the last; pleading, rather
sophistically, that it was, in point of fact, one of the Billy's shots.
My plea was rather indulged than sustained, and the marksmen who had
taken more than one shot commenced the second round. This round was a
manifest improvement upon the first. The cross was driven three times:
once by Spivey, once by Firmby, and once by no less a personage than
Mealy Whitecotton, whom chance seemed to favor for this time, merely