We had a late breakfast at Number 16, and my friend Stevenson, who was to handle me in the match, saw to it that I had a hard tubbing before breakfast and a good run afterward, and later a hearty luncheon with no heavy wines.  I was surprised at these business-like proceedings, which were all new to me, and I reflected with no satisfaction that my hot-headedness in accepting Orme’s challenge might result in no glory to myself, and worse than that, let in my friends for loss; for Stevenson informed me that in spite of the fact that I had never shot in a race, a number of wagers were backing me against the Englishman.  I reasoned, however, that these responsibilities should not be considered by one who needed perfect command of himself.  Moreover, although I had never shot at trapped birds, I reasoned that a bird in the air was a flying bird after all, whether from trap or tree.  Then, again, I was offended at Orme’s air of superiority.  Lastly, though it might be the fault of the Cowles’ blood to accept any sort of challenge, it was not our way to regret that so soon as the day following.

The grounds for the match had been arranged at the usual place, near to the edge of the military reservation, and here, a half hour before the time set, there began to gather practically all of the young officers about the Post, all the enlisted men who could get leave, with cooks, strikers, laundresses, and other scattered personnel of the barracks.  There came as well many civilians from the city, and I was surprised to see a line of carriages, with many ladies, drawn up back of the score.  Evidently our little matter was to be made a semi-fashionable affair, and used as another expedient to while away ennui-ridden Army time.

My opponent, accompanied by Major Williams, arrived at about the same time that our party reached the grounds.  Orme shook hands with me, and declared that he was feeling well, although Williams laughingly announced that he had not been able to make his man go to bed for more than an hour that morning, or to keep him from eating and drinking everything he could lay his hands upon.  Yet now his eye was bright, his skin firm, his step light and easy.  That the man had a superb constitution was evident, and I knew that my work was cut out for me, for Orme, whatever his profession, was an old one at the game of speedy going.  As a man I disliked and now suspected him.  As an opponent at any game one was obliged to take account of him.

“What boundary do we use, gentlemen?” Orme asked, as he looked out over the field.  This question showed his acquaintance, but none the less his confidence and his courtesy as well, for in closely made matches all details are carefully weighed before the issue is joined.  “I am more used to the Monaco bounds of eighteen yards,” he added, “but whatever is your custom here will please me.  I only want to have a notion of your sport.”

“Our races here have usually been shot at fifty yards bounds,” said Stevenson.