Hicks, the Belle Plain overseer, pushed his way to Murrell’s side.

“Here, John Murrell, ain’t you going to show us a trick or two?” he inquired.

Murrell turned quickly with a sense of relief.

“If you can spare me your rifle,” he said, but his face wore a bleak look.  Glancing at Betty, he took up his station with the other contestants, whereupon two or three young planters silently withdrew from the firing-line.

“Don’t you think you’ve seen about enough, Bet?” demanded Tom.  “You don’t care for the shooting, do you ?”

“That’s the very thing I do care for; I think I’d rather see that than the horse-racing,” said Betty perversely.  This had been her first appearance in public since her home-coming, and she felt that it had been most satisfactory.  She had met everybody she had ever known, and scores of new people; her progress had been quite triumphal in spite of Tom, and in spite of Charley Norton, who was plainly not anxious to share her with any one, his devotion being rather of the monopolizing sort.

Betty now seated herself in the carriage, with Hannibal beside her, quietly determined to miss nothing.  The judge, feeling that he had come into his own, leaned elegantly against the wheel, and explained the merits of each shot as it was made.

“Our intruding friend, the Captain, ma’am, is certainly a master with his weapon,” he observed.

Betty was already aware of this.  She turned to Norton.

“Charley, I can’t bear to have him win!”

“I am afraid he will, for anything I can do, Betty,” said Norton.

“Mr. Carrington, can’t you shoot?—­do take Hannibal’s rifle and beat him,” she coaxed.

“Don’t be too sure that I can!” said Carrington, laughing.

“But I know you can!” urged Betty.

“I hope you gentlemen are not going to let me walk off with the prize?” said Murrell, approaching the group about the carriage.

“Mr. Norton, I am told you are clever with the rifle.”

“I am not shooting to-day,” responded Norton haughtily.

Murrell stalked back to the line.

“At forty paces I’d risk it myself, ma’am,” said the judge.  “But at a hundred, offhand like this, I should most certainly fail —­I’ve burnt too much midnight oil.  Eh—­what—­damn the dog, he’s scored another center shot!”

“It would be hard to beat that—­” they heard Murrell say.

“At least it would be quite possible to equal it,” said Carrington, advancing with Hannibal’s rifle in his hands.  It was tossed to his shoulder, and poured out its contents in a bright stream of flame.  There was a moment of silence.

“Center shot, ma’am!” cried the judge.

“I’ll add twenty dollars to the purse!” Norton addressed himself to Carrington.  “And I shall hope, sir, to see it go in to your pocket.”

“Our sentiments exactly, ma’am, are they not?” said the judge.