ghting his pipe, and seemed quite unimpressed.

"Bullet went straight (_puff, puff_)," said he. "That's all you can say
(_puff, puff_). No _one_ shot's a good shot (_puff, puff_). Take's two
to prove it (_puff, puff_)."

He straightened his head and threw the match away.

"It's too good, Bobby, to be anything but an accident," said he kindly.
"Now come and try again."

Bobby was permitted to fire nine more shots, of which three hit the
paper, and none came near the bull's eye. He could not understand this;
for with the dead rest across the stump, he thought he was holding the
sights against the black. Mr. Kincaid watched him amusedly. The small
figure crouched over the stump was so ridiculously in earnest. At the
tenth shot he put the cover on the box of ammunition.

"Aren't we going to shoot any more?" cried Bobby, disappointed.

"Enough's enough," said Mr. Kincaid. "Ten shots is practice. More's
just fooling--at first, anyway. You can't expect to become a good shot
in an afternoon. If you could, why, where's the glory of being a good
shot?"

"I don't see what made me miss," speculated Bobby.

"I think I could tell you," replied Mr. Kincaid, "but I'm not going to.
You think it over; and next time see if you can tell me. That's the way
to learn."

"Next time!" cried Bobby, his interest reviving.

"You aren't tired of it, are you?" enquired Mr. Kincaid with mock
anxiety. "Because I've got ninety cartridges left here that I wouldn't
know what to do with."

"Oh!" cried Bobby.

"Well, then," proposed Mr. Kincaid, "I'll tell you what we'll do. You
and I will organize the--well, the Maple County Sportsman's Association,
say; and we'll hold weekly shoots. These will be the grounds. You and I
will be the charter members; but we'll let in others, if we happen to
want to."

"Papa," breathed Bobby.

"Moved and seconded that Mr. John Orde, alias Papa, be elected. Motion
carried," said Mr. Kincaid. "I'll be President," he continued. "I've
always wanted to be president of something; and you can be secretary.
You must get a little blank book, and rule it off for the scores. Then
maybe by and by we'll have a prize, or something. What do you think?"

Bobby said what he thought.

"Now," said Mr. Kincaid, opening the wooden box that ran along the floor
of the two-wheeled cart where the dashboard, had there been one, would
have been placed, "this is the next thing: when you're through shooting,
clean the gun. If you le