shot with a half–filled cartridge, which was
disputed.

The ammunition clerk, a crimson–cheeked
young farmer's son, who carried a large canvas
haversack stuffed with ball–cartridges and
packets of caps, informed me that the cup was
to be shot for in or out of uniform, and in any
position; but the pull of the trigger was not to
be less than six pounds. No artificial rests nor
magnifying sights were to be admitted; all scores
were to be reckoned as points, and to be shot off
at one shot each at the longest range.

A prize for the second shot was to come out
of the entrance fees, and there was a sweep–
stakes of one shilling each for the third, and
sixpence each for the fourth best shot.

"Two to one, or a level sixpence!" were the
cries of the bettors, as the riflemen now moved
on to the two hundred–yard range. The
young nut–brown miller, buttoning up his chest,
advanced to fire. He stood well forward, and
the rifle–barrel lay as firm and even in his left
hand as if it were built into a wall. He raised
the sight slowly, and, with his right elbow well
up, released the trigger almost imperceptibly. A
thin angry gush of fire; a quick report; a
choking drift back, of powder–smoke, and the
bullet ting–tanged on the target just above the
bull's eye. I saw the whitewash fly off the
target, as if a puff of smoke had passed from
the iron. The bullet left a leaden star mark.
Hurrah! it was a 2; for the marker waved his
blue flag over his turfen rampart.

The good shots all came first. Lothario
stepped forward next, and, with quick aim, let fly
with an elegant and studied carelessness—his
shot was high to the left, and the white flag
waved high to the left, too. Sergeant
Brotherhood, a stolid man, aimed carefully and pulled
carefully; the result being a bull's eye, and a
triumphant wave of the red flag. "Two to one
on Brotherhood!"

"Five hundred yards," shouted St. Ives;
"right about face!" And off went the champions
to the distant white stump far away beyond the
thorn–bush and that third clump of prickly
furze on which the yellow blossoms showed so
starred and coldly. Sergeant Brotherhood was
champion, for he made one red, three blues,
and one white out of his five shots at two
hundred yards. Next to him in the score, came
the miller and the gay exciseman, while private
Nott, who had not got the right way of holding
his rifle, missed three times, and scored only
two points at the same range.

The red danger flag was now hoisted, and
Squire Hanger's groom—there on a superb chesnut
hunter—was now told to gallop up to the
target, and tell the keeper to come out of his
fortress and repaint it.

Presently the groom came galloping back
to say that the targets were ready, the red
flag taken down. The firing began. The
privates were joking each other about the "ducks'
eggs," or O misses. I was hailed as umpire, and
the bets grew more numerous. Many of the
attitudes now were eccentric. St. Ives was
busy with the score–book. How carefully, with
a grave smile, Brotherhood loaded his rifle! He
twitched off dexterously the top of the
cartridge—he poured in the large black grained
powder—he put in the bullet so clean and
bran new, and it slid down the barrel with a
gurgling sound of content till the steel cap of the
ramrod proclaimed it home—now he canted up
the piece, ticked off the burnt cap and
refitted the nipple with a fresh little copper hat
—then he half cocked the piece and brought
it to the "order."

Meanwhile, it was the miller's turn to fire. He
chose to kneel, and get a firm rest with his
elbow on his left knee. Bang! the sound from
the target told us that it was an outside shot;
the marker waved the white flag—he had gained
one point.

Brotherhood now sat down in the Ross manner,
and cuddled up the butt of the rifle with his
coat collar: the barrel beautifully steady, his
neck craned up uncomfortably to look over
the high turnpike gate of a rest straight to the
target. Will the trigger never move? Whish!
tang! it was a three, positively. Very good,
Sergeant Brotherhood!

The next man laid down flat on his stomach
and fired; the consequence of which attitude,
and it not being properly allowed for, was that
the bullet fell forty yards short of the target,
ploughed a long dark groove in the turf, and
splashed up over the target, turf–wall and all,
into the woods far above, to the serious injury
of the young oaks.

The target looked very small from hence, and,
with the worse shots, the bullets have a special
tendency to fall short; but the defeated men
bear their losses very well, and joke about
"shooting well when they choose," and wanting
"a brooding hen to put some of their ducks' eggs
under." With good–humoured grumbling they
poured their lost sixpences into the receptive
hands of the stakeholder, and Brotherhood and
the miller were still the champions. Again the
groom galloped up to the target to order the
marker to repaint it; for now the shooting at
the six hundred yards—the real tug of war—
commenced.

The target still stared at us steadily with its
one eye, but it was smaller than a pocket–handkerchief;
and, when a rifle–barrel wavered the sight,
was lost in a moment.

"Now, then, do your best, sergeant, and the
cup's yours," says St. Ives to Brotherhood,
quietly dotting up the score–book all the while;
"nothing to do, man, but aim straight and pull
steadily."

"Very easy, isn't it, when you know how,
captain?" says Brotherhood, kneeling, and
putting up his rest to the line marked six
hundred. Breathless excitement.

A long aim, lost once, and once readjusted,
and Brotherhood fired a nervous shot—the
flittering of the silver cup in his eyes—but
Fortune was with him, for it was a blue.
The miller followed with a white, the exciseman
with a miss, which he could not account for.