“It is the same to me,” I said.  So finally we decided that the rise should be at twenty-eight yards, the use of both barrels allowed, and the boundary at fifty yards—­such rules as came to be later more generally accepted in this country.

“Gentlemen, I suggest that you agree each bird to be gathered fairly by the hand, each of you to select a gatherer.  Each gentleman may remunerate his gatherer, but the said remuneration shall in each case remain the same.  Is that satisfactory?” We agreed, and each tossed a silver dollar to a grinning darky boy.

“Now, then, gentlemen, the Court is informed that this match is to be for the sum of twenty-five hundred dollars, wagered by Captain Orme, against a certain black stallion horse, the same not introduced in evidence, but stated by Mr. Cowles to be of the value of twenty-five hundred dollars in the open market.  As the match is stated to be on even terms, the said John Cowles guarantees this certain horse to be of such value, or agrees to make good any deficit in that value.  Is that understood, gentlemen?”

“I did not ask any guarantee,” said Orme.  “I know the horse, and he is worth more than twice that sum.  You are using me very handsomely, gentlemen.”

“Judge Reeves is right,” said I.  “The match is to be even.”  We bowed to each other.

The judge felt in his pockets.  “Ahem, gentlemen,” he resumed.  “The Court being, as it were, broke, will some one be so good as to lend the Court a silver coin?  Thank you,” to Williams, “and now, gentlemen, will you toss for the order of precedence?”

We threw the coin, and I lost the toss.  Orme sent me to the score first, with the purpose, as I knew, of studying his man.

I loaded at the open bowls, and adjusted the caps as I stepped to the score.  I was perhaps a bit too tense and eager, although my health and youth had never allowed me to be a victim of what is known as nervousness.  Our birds were to be flown by hand from behind a screen, and my first bird started off a trifle low, but fast, and I knew I was not on with the first barrel, the hang of Stevenson’s gun being not quite the same as my own.  I killed it with the second, but it struggled over the tape.

“Lost bird!” called out Judge Reeves sharply and distinctly; and it was evident that now he would be as decisive as he had hitherto been deliberate.

Under the etiquette of the game no comment was made on my mishap, and my second, Stevenson, did not make the mistake of commiserating me.  No one spoke a word as Orme stepped to the score.  He killed his bird as clean as though he had done nothing else all his life, and indeed, I think he was half turned about from the score before the bird was down.  “Dead bird!” called the referee, with jaw closing like a steel trap.

Stevenson whispered to me this time.  “Get full on with your first,” he said.  “They’re lead-packers—­old ones, every one, and a picked lot.”