Expert Shooting
Rather alarmed, Brad and Dan looked quickly behind them.
The roadway was clear. Nor could they see anyone hiding in the bushes.
They were certain however, that the arrow had been shot from that
direction.
“It’s a joke, I guess,” Brad said a bit unnerved. “Either that, or the
gardener is taking this way of getting even.”
After a moment, the boys went over to the tree and pulled out the arrow
from the tree where it had lodged.
“Say!” Dan exclaimed. “This looks like the arrow that was shot into our
target the other day at the castle!”
“It is the same size and shape!”
“We’re not far from the castle grounds either, Brad.”
“That’s so. You know, I don’t like the idea of anyone shooting over our
heads, Dan. The arrow may have been aimed high on purpose, but it’s a
dangerous trick.”
“It sure is. Do you think the gardener would do a trick like that?”
“He certainly wanted us to leave. We didn’t make any trouble about it
though. So I can’t see why he’d shoot an arrow.”
“Even if he didn’t, he may know who the archer is,” Dan said, slipping
the shaft into his pocket. “Let’s go back to the tool house and ask him
point-blank.”
“We-ll—”
“This is a free country,” Dan argued. “No one has a right to be shooting
arrows at us.”
“All right, we’ll ask him,” Brad consented. “We are trespassing though,
and he’s within his rights to order us off the property.”
Uncertain of the reception they might receive, the two boys rapidly
retraced their steps to the tool house. In walking they kept a sharp
watch of the bushes. Once Dan thought he heard a giggle from the shadowy
woods. But he saw no one.
As the boys reached the tool house, the door suddenly swung open.
The Cubs again found themselves confronted by the gardener.
“Back again?” he demanded unpleasantly. “Didn’t I tell you to get on the
move?”
“We started all right,” Brad replied. “Then someone shot at us from
behind!”
“What d’you mean? Shot at you?”
Dan produced the arrow.
“Oh, that,” the gardener shrugged.
“Maybe you’ve seen an arrow like this before?” Brad inquired.
“Maybe I have,” the man answered unpleasantly. “Then again, maybe I
ain’t. Now will you get off this property, or have I got to call the
police?”
“We’ll go, but first we want to know about this arrow,” Dan said
stubbornly. “Did you shoot it?”
“No, I didn’t,” the gardener retorted. “I got other things to do than
shoot arrows.”
“Maybe you have a son—” Brad began, but the man interrupted.
“No, I don’t have a son,” he said. Uneasily the man glanced toward the
veranda where an elderly looking gentleman had appeared. “Now get going,
or I’ll call the police! This is your last warning.”
Thoroughly disgusted, Brad and Dan moved away. At the bend in the lane,
they glanced back and saw that the elderly man remained on the porch,
watching them. Evidently he was the owner of the property, they thought.
“We should have appealed to him,” Brad said. “For some reason, Old
Sourpuss didn’t want us to talk to his employer. Probably he’s afraid
we’ll drop a word to the master about how he’s allowed the weeds to
flourish.”
Approaching the place where the arrow had been shot, the boys walked
warily. Nothing happened. Nor did they see anyone hiding amid the bushes.
Safely, Dan and Brad reached the main road.
“Who do you suppose shot that arrow?” Dan speculated. “I don’t believe it
was the gardener, and he said he has no son.”
Brad could not venture a guess. He agreed with Dan, however, that the
arrow appeared to be identical with the one that had been shot into the
target at the castle grounds.
The meeting with the gardener had discouraged the two boys. After talking
it over, they decided to abandon looking for work that day.
“We have one job lined up at any rate,” Dan declared. “That will keep the
Cubs busy and provide a little money.”
On the following day, the boys of Den 2 joined forces to clear away the
weeds and dry grass at the Wilkinson estate. So well did they do the
work, that the owner engaged them to clean another larger area for him.
By the end of the day, the Cubs had netted enough to buy the materials
for their costumes.
All that week Dan spent as much time as he could on the archery range
near his home. He and Midge practiced too at the Holloway home, with Mr.
Holloway offering expert instruction.
“You’ve improved remarkably,” the Den Dad praised Dan. “Just don’t get
excited Saturday, and you may yet win the role of Robin Hood.”
On Saturday, not only the Cubs of both dens but the parents as well,
gathered to witness the shooting contest.
Mr. Holloway had brought along his movie camera and planned to record the
match.
“We’ll run the contest off as much as possible as it was done at
Nottingham Town,” Mr. Hatfield announced. “However, the winner shall have
the role of Robin Hood.”
“Review the scene for us, please,” Midge requested the Cub leader.
Mr. Hatfield explained that the Sheriff of Nottingham had planned the
shooting contest as a trick to capture Robin Hood. Because the outlaw was
known never to miss an important match, it was believed that he would not
fail to appear.
“On the sidelines we have the sheriff and his men,” the Cub leader said.
“When the herald blows a blast, the archers take their places. How many
are to compete for the role?”
Only four boys had decided to try for it. Besides Dan and Ross, Midge and
Clyde Jennings, a boy from Den 1, had finally asked for a chance at the
part.
“Each boy will shoot only six arrows,” the Cub leader instructed. “And
the one having the highest total is the winner.”
Clyde Jennings stepped to the line. His first three arrows missed the
target entirely. The final three barely caught in the outer rim.
“That finishes me,” muttered Clyde, deeply humiliated. “I never did that
bad before. Having so many people watching, made me nervous.”
Midge’s turn came next. He drew his bow quickly but did not take as
careful aim as he might have done. The arrow netted him only three
points.
On the next five shots Midge used more care. Even so, he wound up with a
total of 20 points.
“I’m out of it,” he whispered to Dan. “Unless you can come through, Ross
will be Robin Hood.”
The crowd became quiet as Ross picked up his bow. His first two arrows
landed squarely in the gold of the target.
Ross grinned at his own success and winked at one of the Cubs.
But his next shot was wild, barely catching the outer rim of the target.
On his fourth arrow he recovered form somewhat, managing to net seven
points.
His total score read: 991753 or six arrows shot for a total of 34 points.
“Nice going, Ross,” praised Dan. “I don’t think I can better it.”
The Den 1 boy’s response was a proud smile. He too felt that Dan couldn’t
beat him.
“Shoot as well as you can, Dan,” Midge whispered into his ear. “Our play
will be ruined if Ross is made Robin Hood.”
Dan deftly fitted the feather of the arrow to his bowstring. Taking aim
carefully, he let speed the shaft. Straight it flew, but missed the
target by a scant inch and nose-dived into a hillock.
The Cubs of Den 2 emitted a loud moan. Ross smiled broadly. He was
confident now of victory.
Outwardly unmoved, Dan again took aim, deliberately lowering his sight.
Again the arrow flew straight from his bow, landing in the gold.
“Nine points!” shouted Midge, tossing his cap into the air. “Keep ’er
up.”
Dan shot twice more in rapid succession. Both arrows landed in the
yellow. The boy now had shot four times for a total of 27 points.
“Do it again, Dan!” yelled Red.
Dan, however, was less sure of himself on the next shot. The arrow dug
into the target on the rim of the gold.
Lest there be any argument, Mr. Hatfield ruled that it had fallen within
the next band of color. Dan was awarded 7 points.
“That ties the score!” whooped Midge. “You’ll win easily now, Dan.”
The words unnerved Dan. As he raised his bow to make the final shot, he
could feel his arm tremble. When he finally released the arrow, it missed
the target.
“Buck fever,” Dan laughed, putting down his bow. “I guess I deserve to
lose out to Ross.”
“But you haven’t,” Mr. Hatfield informed him. “You’re both tied with 34
points. Now you’ll have to shoot again.”
Ross had jumped up from the grass. “I don’t want to do that,” he
protested. “My arm is sore. I hit the target every time while Dan missed
twice. Doesn’t that prove—”
“Not a thing,” said Mr. Hatfield. “Well, Ross, if you’re unwilling to
shoot again, suppose we settle it by drawing lots?”
“Okay,” the boy agreed after hesitating a moment. “I’m pretty lucky.”
“How about you, Dan? Are you willing to settle it by drawing cuts?”
“That’s fair enough,” Dan agreed. “For that matter, I’m willing to give
the part to Ross. Honestly, I feel he’s the better shot.”
“Ross will make an excellent Sheriff of Nottingham,” returned Mr.
Hatfield, preparing several strips of paper for the “draw.” “So we’ll
decide the matter by lot.”
The Cub leader told the boys that the one who received the shorter stub
of paper should be declared winner.
Ross took his turn first. After studying the slips which Mr. Hatfield
held half-concealed in his hand, he finally drew one forth.
In length, it appeared fairly short.
Dan’s turn came next. Thinking that Ross already had won, he selected a
slip carelessly. To his astonishment, it was a stub end—at least two
inches shorter than the paper the other boy had drawn.
“Dan wins!” cried Chips gleefully.
Ross was too crestfallen to speak. He started to say that the contest
hadn’t been fair, but choked off the words. After all, he had protested
at shooting a second time, and had favored drawing lots.
“I’m sorry, Ross,” Dan said, noticing the other’s keen disappointment.
“If it means so much to you, keep the role.”
Ross shook his head and tried to grin.
“No, you won the part and it’s yours for good,” he said.
“Well spoken, Ross,” said Mr. Hatfield, clapping him on the back. “A Cub
has to be a good sport about losing out. You’ll be an asset to the play
as the Sheriff of Nottingham.”
“Oh, sure,” Ross murmured, smiling weakly.
The Cubs started toward the target, intending to retrieve their arrows.
Before they could cross the range, three arrows were shot in rapid
succession over their heads. Each lodged in almost the center of the
target.
Amazed, the boys whirled around. The archer who had sent the arrows
winging had drawn his bow from a long distance away. But he was nowhere
in sight.
“Who shot those arrows?” Mr. Hatfield demanded. “That was real shooting!”
“I think they came from that clump of bushes to the right!” Brad
exclaimed. “It must be that mysterious fellow who’s always taking shots
over our heads. Let’s nab him.”
Thus urged, the Cubs made a dash for the clump of foliage.