“And do you so much crave to outdo me, an old and tried friend? —­ and that, as it might be, in my own way?  Shooting is my gift, boy, and no common hand can equal mine.”

“I know it —­ I know it, Pathfinder; but yet —­ "

“But what, Jasper, boy? —­ speak freely; you talk to a friend.”

The young man compressed his lips, dashed a hand across his eye, and flushed and paled alternately, like a girl confessing her love.  Then, squeezing the other’s hand, he said calmly, like one whose manhood has overcome all other sensations, “I would lose an arm, Pathfinder, to be able to make an offering of that calash to Mabel Dunham.”

The hunter dropped his eyes to the ground, and as he walked slowly back towards the stand, he seemed to ponder deeply on what he had just heard.

“You never could succeed in the double trial, Jasper!” he suddenly remarked.

“Of that I am certain, and it troubles me.”

“What a creature is mortal man!  He pines for things which are not of his gift and treats the bounties of Providence lightly.  No matter, no matter.  Take your station, Jasper, for the Major is waiting; and harken, lad, —­ I must touch the skin, for I could not show my face in the garrison with less than that.”

“I suppose I must submit to my fate,” returned Jasper, flushing and losing his color as before; “but I will make the effort, if I die.”

“What a thing is mortal man!” repeated Pathfinder, falling back to allow his friend room to take his arm; “he overlooks his own gifts, and craves those of another!”

The potato was thrown, Jasper fired, and the shout that followed preceded the announcement of the fact that he had driven his bullet through its centre, or so nearly so as to merit that award.

“Here is a competitor worthy of you, Pathfinder,” cried Major Duncan with delight, as the former took his station; “and we may look to some fine shooting in the double trial.”

“What a thing is mortal man!” repeated the hunter, scarcely seeming to notice what was passing around him, so much were his thoughts absorbed in his own reflections.  “Toss!”

The potato was tossed, the rifle cracked, —­ it was remarked just as the little black ball seemed stationary in the air, for the marksman evidently took unusual heed to his aim, —­ and then a look of disappointment and wonder succeeded among those who caught the falling target.

“Two holes in one?” called out the Major.

“The skin, the skin!” was the answer; “only the skin!”

“How’s this, Pathfinder?  Is Jasper Eau-douce to carry off the honors of the day?”

“The calash is his,” returned the other, shaking his head and walking quietly away from the stand.  “What a creature is mortal man! never satisfied with his own gifts, but for ever craving that which Providence denies!”

As Pathfinder had not buried his bullet in the potato, but had cut through the skin, the prize was immediately adjudged to Jasper.  The calash was in the hands of the latter when the Quartermaster approached, and with a polite air of cordiality he wished his successful rival joy of his victory.