“That’s my chance!” exclaimed Herbert, in excitement; “that’s just my distance; get out of my way! give me room! now I’ll show you what my Creedmoor will do, when aimed by a master of the art.”

With great display and ceremony the youth prepared to give an exhibition of shooting like that shown at the international matches.  The others stepped back, so as not to impede his movements, and he deliberately threw off his cap, got down on his back, raised the rear sight, crossed his feet and drew them half way up to his body, then rested the barrel of his gun on the support thus furnished between the knees, and with his left hand beneath his head, and turned so as to rest against the stock of his gun, while his right was crooked around with the finger lightly pressing the trigger, he was in the proper position to make a “crack shot.”

The others watched his actions with the closest attention, only fearful that the deer would not keep his position long enough for Herbert to obtain the aim he wished.

The conditions could not have been more favorable; the buck being to the northwest, while the sun was high in the heavens, there was no confusion of vision from that cause.  The smokiness of the atmosphere was so slight that it was scarcely perceptible at so brief a distance, while there was not the least breath of air stirring.

“I am afraid he will lose his chance if he waits too long,” said Nick impatiently, in an undertone to Sam, who whispered back: 

“The buck understands him and will wait.”

It was evident that Mr. Herbert Watrous did not mean to spoil his aim by haste.  Shutting one eye, he squinted carefully through his sights, lowering or raising the stock or barrel so as to shift the aim, until at last he had it elevated and pointed to suit him.

Sam watched the buck, while Nick kept his eye on the marksman, who was holding his breath, with his finger crowding the trigger harder and harder until the explosion came.

As before, Herbert uttered a grunt the instant the piece was discharged, and then, hastily clambering to his feet, he put on his cap and said with the utmost assurance: 

“That bullet struck him in the chest and will be found buried in his body.”

“He doesn’t know you fired at him,” said Sam Harper, as the buck, a moment later, turned about and walked out of sight.

“The deer doesn’t fall at once, even if you drive the bullet through his heart.  That buck may go a hundred yards or so, but he will then drop as if struck by lightning.”

The confidence with which these words were uttered puzzled Nick and caused him to think that possibly the boaster was right after all, and he had made the shot he claimed.

The truth would probably be learned during the afternoon, for Nick meant to learn it for himself.

Now that they agreed to separate, it was decided that Herbert should keep straight along the route they had been following.  Sam should diverge to the right, while Nick would swerve far enough to the left to pass the rock whereupon the buck stood at the time he was shot or rather shot at.