e most reliable duck shots we have," said Bobby's neighbour to
the stranger. "He shoots just like that, always. Never in a hurry; but
he seems to get there. Kills a lot of game in the season."

The shoot progressed with almost the precision of a machine. Bobby
amused himself by closing his eyes to hear the regular _ready, pull,
bang!_ that marked the progress of the score. From his level with the
tops of the brown grasses of late summer he enjoyed the wandering puffs
of hot air, the drift of pungent aromatic powder smoke, the rapid
successive bending of the stalks as though fairies were running over
them when the breezelets passed. It was all very pleasant and, for the
time being, he forgot his disappointment.

The match was to be at one-hundred balls--sixty singles, and twenty
pairs of doubles. Early in the game the different shooters began roughly
to group themselves on the score-cards according to their ability. One
class, among whom were Newmark and Kincaid, continued to break their
targets with unvarying accuracy. Young Wellman by rights belonged with
these; but he had undershot a strong incomer; and the miss had cost him
two others before he could recover his temper. The second class had
missed from one to five each. The third class, typified by Mr. Heinzman,
had a long string of "goose-eggs" to their discredit.

The fiftieth bird, however, Mr. Kincaid missed. It flipped sideways from
the arm of the trap, and flew for twenty feet close to the ground. The
referee had actually started to call "no bird"; but Mr. Kincaid elected
to try for it; missed; and had to abide by his decision. At the close of
the singles, Newmark had a score of sixty straight; Kincaid fifty-nine;
and the others strung out variously in the rear.

At this point, a short recess was taken. The crowd of men lit fresh
cigars; talked out loud; circulated about; and relaxed generally from
the long strain. Some scattered out into the grass to help the trapper
to look for unbroken balls. Ordinarily Bobby loved to do this; but
to-day he sidled up to where his friend was stooping over the japanned
box. Bobby watched him a moment in silence, methodically laying away
the used brass shells, one up and one down in regular succession.

"It's too bad you got beat," he ventured timidly at last.

Mr. Kincaid ceased his occupation, removed his pipe from his mouth, and
looked up at Bobby searchingly.

"Youngster," he said kindly, "I'm not beat."

"You're be