“Ah, Joe!” said the major, “I thought you would have carried off the prize.”

“So did not I, sir,” returned Blunt, with a shake of his head.  “Had it a-bin a half-dollar at a hundred yards, I’d ha’ done better, but I never could hit the nail.  It’s too small to see.”

“That’s cos ye’ve got no eyes,” remarked Jim Scraggs, with a sneer, as he stepped forward.

All tongues were now hushed, for the expected champion was about to fire.  The sharp crack of the rifle was followed by a shout, for Jim had hit the nail-head on the edge, and part of the bullet stuck to it.

“That wins if there’s no better,” said the major, scarce able to conceal his disappointment.  “Who comes next?”

To this question Henri answered by stepping up to the line, straddling his legs, and executing preliminary movements with his rifle, that seemed to indicate an intention on his part to throw the weapon bodily at the mark.  He was received with a shout of mingled laughter and applause.  After gazing steadily at the mark for a few seconds, a broad grin overspread his countenance, and looking round at his companions, he said,—­“Ha! mes boys, I can-not behold de nail at all!”

“Can ye ‘behold’ the tree?” shouted a voice, when the laugh that followed this announcement had somewhat abated.

“Oh! oui,” replied Henri quite coolly; “I can see him, an’ a goot small bit of de forest beyond.”

“Fire at it, then.  If ye hit the tree ye desarve the rifle—­leastways ye ought to get the pup.”

Henri grinned again, and fired instantly, without taking aim.

The shot was followed by an exclamation of surprise, for the bullet was found close beside the nail.

“It’s more be good luck than good shootin’,” remarked Jim Scraggs.

“Possiblement,” answered Henri modestly, as he retreated to the rear and wiped out his rifle; “mais I have kill most of my deer by dat same goot luck.”

“Bravo, Henri!” said Major Hope as he passed; “you deserve to win, anyhow.  Who’s next?”

“Dick Varley,” cried several voices; “where’s Varley?  Come on, youngster, an’ take yer shot.”

The youth came forward with evident reluctance.  “It’s of no manner o’ use,” he whispered to Joe Blunt as he passed, “I can’t depend on my old gun.”

“Never give in,” whispered Blunt, encouragingly.

Poor Varley’s want of confidence in his rifle was merited, for, on pulling the trigger, the faithless lock missed fire.

“Lend him another gun,” cried several voices.

“’Gainst rules laid down by Major Hope,” said Scraggs.

“Well, so it is; try again.”

Varley did try again, and so successfully, too, that the ball hit the nail on the head, leaving a portion of the lead sticking to its edge.

Of course this was greeted with a cheer, and a loud dispute began as to which was the better shot of the two.