SHOOTING.
Lew Veazie was a sorry sight when he got up from the ground. The water
had converted the soil into mud, which plastered him now from head to
foot. And here and there on his face and hands were red spots made by
the bee stings.
Gene Skelding was flailing at some bees that did not seem to have
discovered that the queen was captured and their rightful domicile was
the farmer's pail. There were other bees also at liberty, and one of
them, angered no doubt by the turn of events, popped a stinger into the
cuticle of Bink Stubbs.
"Scatt!" shrieked Bink. "Get away from here, or I'll murder you!"
Browning moved back, for a bee seemed to be making a desperate effort to
single him out as a victim. Then he stuck his pipe into his mouth,
quickly fished out some tobacco, and crammed the bowl full, and lighted
it.
"Smoke 'em off!" he said. "That's a good way to fight bees."
"And tobacco smoke keeps away other female critters!" laughed Danny,
trying rather vainly to imitate the peculiar quality in the farmer's
speech. "That's the reason you have never been popular with the fair.
Now there is Veazie----"
"What about cigarettes?" drawled Browning, making a fog round his head.
"Don't let the kettle call the pot Blackie! The most disgusting thing
ever created is a smoker of cigarettes!"
"Yah!" growled Danny, taking out a cigarette. "Lend me a match, old
man."
And Browning lent him a match. Bink was rubbing earnestly at the stung
spot.
"I'll never see honey again without thinking of this."
"Which honey do you mean?" asked Danny. "I heard you calling a
chambermaid Honey the other evening. You must have thought her sweet!"
"And I heard one of them calling you a fool the other evening. She must
have thought you an idiot."
"Thomebody get me a cab!" begged Veazie, rubbing his stings and ruefully
regarding himself. "Thay, fellowth, thith ith awful! I'm a thight! Get a
cab, thomebody, and take me home. I'm thick!"
"No cab here," said Skelding, who was also anxious to get away from the
joking and guying crowd. "But I see a carriage over there. Yes, two of
them."
"Get a cawiage--anything!" moaned Veazie. "Take me to the hothpital,
take me to a laundwy, take me to a bath--anywhere, quick!"
The exodus of Veazie and his friends was followed by the return of
Merriwell and his comrades to the traps. Hodge had not been long out of
a sick-bed, and looked thin and weak. He walked with Merriwell. The
other members of the flock had forgiven him for the rancorous and sulky
spirit which had made him refuse to catch in the ball-game against
Hartford, in which Buck Badger had pitched, but they had not forgotten
it. They were courteous, but they were not cordial, and Hodge felt it.
Buck Badger came upon the ground, but without a gun. He was alone, too,
and he kept away from Merriwell's crowd. He had not learned to like
Merriwell's friends, any of them, and he detested Hodge.
Having taken his gun from its case, Merriwell put it together, and
opened a box of loaded shells, which he placed on the ground. The gun
was a beautiful twelve-gage hammerless, of late design and American
manufacture, bored for trap shooting. Hodge's gun was so nearly like it
that they could scarcely be told apart.
Morton Agnew and Donald Pike came on the grounds before the shooting
began. Merriwell observed that Badger affected not to notice them, but
the Westerner was plainly annoyed.
"Perhaps you would like to shoot!" said Merriwell, going over to Badger
with his gun. "I can let you have the use of my gun. Hodge has one just
like it, and all our other fellows have good guns. So, if you'd like to
shoot! It's all right, and as good as they make them."
The Kansan was plainly pleased.
"And I can let you have shells."
"I'll take the gun, Merriwell," he said, balancing it in his hands and
looking it over. "But I can't let you furnish shells, when I can buy all
I want right here on the grounds. And there is no reason why you can't
shoot with it, too."
"None at all, old man, only I thought likely you wouldn't want to mix in
with our crowd. I can shoot Bart's gun."
Badger flushed and his face darkened. He was on the point of saying
something bitter against Hodge.
"I didn't intend to shoot when I came out," he said, choking down the
angry utterance, "or I should have brought a gun. In fact, I didn't
start for this place at all. But I'm here now, and I reckon my fingers
would never get done itching if I couldn't get to pull a trigger. I used
to shoot some on the ranch, you know, and I hope I haven't lost anything
whatever of the knack. If I should beat your score now?"
"You're welcome to."
"Of course I'm more used to a revolver and rifle than to a shotgun, but
I allow I know a kink or two about trap shooting, just the same."
The rattle and click of guns being put together, the snapping of locks,
and the chatter, made pleasant music for gun lovers, as Frank returned
to his friends.
"You didn't let him have your gun?" growled Hodge.
"Yes; I will shoot with yours."
"You're welcome to, of course; but I shouldn't have done it."
"Here goes to kill the first bird!" cried Danny, ambling out with a
repeating shotgun in his hands.
"If you don't hit it first time, you can just sheep on kooting--I mean
keep on shooting!" jollied Rattleton.
"I wish there was a bee round here to sting him!" sighed Bink, as Danny
faced the trap. "I'm so sore from laughing that I know I can't hit
anything."
"You couldn't hit anything, anyway!" said Bruce, putting some shells
into his gun.
"I can hit you!" Bink growled, lunging at him.
"I meant anything small!" said Bruce, brushing aside Bink's blow as if
it had been a fly. "Shoo! Don't bother me, or I may get one of these
shells stuck."
A trap was sprung, and Danny blazed away.
"Missed!" said Dismal.
"And Danny is our crack shot!" moaned Bink. "The papers will say
to-night that our shooting was like a lot of schoolgirls."
"How?" asked Merriwell.
"All misses! Yah! Watch me smash one of those blackbirds into dust."
Bink went forward with much seeming confidence--and missed, too.
"Of course I didn't want to take away all the courage of you fellows by
hitting the first bird," he blandly explained. "But I could have done
it."
The conditions for shooting were fair, for the wind was not so strong as
it had been earlier in the day. Several shots were made, together with a
number of hits. Then Buck Badger's name was called, and he went up to
the line with Merriwell's gun. One of the boys who was manipulating the
traps sprung the middle one, and the bird shot swiftly off to the right.
It was a rather difficult target, but Badger knocked the clay bird into
dust.
"A good shot!" some one called from the crowd.
"It was a good shot!" Merriwell commented.
Dismal Jones followed Badger, and knocked down the straightaway bird
which was sprung from the right-hand trap.
"Now the earth will fall!" squeaked Bink, for Browning's name was
called, and Bruce got up lazily from the ground and walked slowly into
position. Bruce disliked a light gun, and carried a heavy ten-gage,
notwithstanding the fact that trap-shooting rules required the users of
such guns to shoot from a longer distance. He believed that the heavier
weight and heavier load more than offset this.
Danny stuck his fingers into his ears as Bruce stood ready to fire the
"cannon." Then there was a thunderous report, as the clay bird flew
through the air, and was knocked to pieces by the impact of the shot.
"Was it an earthquake?" asked Bink, falling back on the ground. "He'll
be wanting to shoot a Krupp gun next!"
"Watch me this time!" said Danny, as he stepped into position. "It's
easier for me to do difficult things. If those traps would only throw
out a dozen birds at once, I'd show you some nice work!"
"Yes, you might get one out of the whole flock," said Diamond. "If it
was a very dense flock, you might get two."
Ten rounds had been fired, and two birds were to be thrown now at the
same time at unknown angles.
"Ready?" asked the boy.
"Pull!" commanded Danny, throwing up his gun.
The birds flew, but Danny did not shoot.
"I thought one was going to jump out of the right-hand trap," he
grinned, "and it didn't."
"Give him another chance," said Dismal. "He oughtn't to be forgiven for
anything, but we'll forgive him."
"Spit on your hands!" some one yelled.
Danny put down his gun, very deliberately spat on his hands, then took
up his gun again.
"Pull!" he commanded.
Two birds flew--one from the right-hand trap and one from the middle
trap. Bang! bang! Danny fired at both, but the birds sailed on and
descended in the grass.
"These shells aren't any good!" he asserted, looking wonderingly into
the powder-stained barrels of the gun. "Or else this gun isn't choked
right for trap shooting. I held on both of those birds."
"You mean you aren't choked right for trap shooting," said Bink, as
Danny came back.
"I'll choke you!" Danny cried, hurling himself on Stubbs and gripping
him by the throat.
"Stop it!" commanded Bruce, as they struggled on the grass. "If you
don't, we'll fire you out of the crowd."
Jack Diamond did the best shooting this time, cleanly killing both
birds. Merriwell and others struck both birds, but Diamond made the
cleanest kill. Danny ambled out again with his repeater, and this time
brought down a bird.
"Talk about easy things!" he spouted, thrusting out his chest as he
pranced back.
"That's right!" howled Bink. "You're the easiest thing on the planet.
That bird was broken and all ready to fall to pieces when it left the
trap. I paid the boy to fix it for you."
"You're another!" Danny declared. "I hit that bird fair and square. See
if you can do better."
"I'm going to hit both!" Bink declared, and for a wonder he did.
"Take me home to mommer!" squealed Danny.
"Talk about shooting!" exclaimed Bink, sticking his hat on the back of
his head. "What's the matter with that, eh?"
"Oh, you're a wonder!" exclaimed Danny. "Accidents are bound to happen
sometimes, you know."
Browning made clean misses, and Diamond got only one bird. The shooting
of most of the others was not of the best.
"I suppose there isn't any way to clip the wings of those things?"
grumbled Dismal, who had missed. "They get up and get away so fast that
I can't pull on them half the time. I could hit my bird if I could find
it. But when I point my gun at it and pull the trigger, it isn't there."
"Pull ahead of it," Merriwell advised.
"Yes, you must use ahead work," said Bink. "If you have a head, that is
what it's for. That's the way I did, and you saw the result. I can get
'em every time now."
As the shooting continued, it was seen that Badger was doing good work,
though nothing at all phenomenal. He stepped into position with an air
of confidence, fired quickly, and then stepped back. But he kept away
from Merriwell's crowd, mingling with others from Yale whom he knew.
Hodge's score and the Westerner's were nearly alike. Hodge saw it and
squirmed. Then Merriwell, who had made only one miss, scored two "goose
eggs," and Badger climbed up to him.
"I don't like that," Bart grumbled. "You're not doing your best, Merry.
Badger may beat you."
Merriwell was cleaning out and cooling his gun--Bart's gun--which both
were using, and which had grown hot and foul from rapid firing. The
first round of twenty shots was nearing its close. Only four more shots
were to be fired in it, at two pairs of birds. Badger had to his credit
thirteen hits and three misses, and Merriwell the same.
"If you should miss one of the four and Badger should hit them all you
would be beaten!" Bart urged uneasily. "And I don't want you to be
beaten by him. I'm afraid you are going to tie. I want you to beat him.
I can't stand it to have him crowing round."
Merriwell smiled placidly.
"Don't steam so, Hodge. It just heats you up, and makes you unhappy. If
Buck Badger should beat me, I don't see that it would make a great
difference. I haven't been shooting for a record this afternoon."
"All right," said Hodge. "However good your intentions may be, that
fellow will never give you honest credit for them."
The shooting had recommenced, and Hodge walked back to the crowd,
plainly disgruntled.
Merriwell clutched a handful of shells and went over to Badger.
"Try these, Buck!" he said. "They're a good deal better than those
you've been using. I had them loaded very carefully under my own
supervision for this kind of work, and you'll find them very fine.
They're just suited to that gun, too. You have really been shooting at a
disadvantage to-day."
A smile came to the dark face of the Westerner--a stern, determined sort
of smile.
"Better not give them to me, perhaps, Merry. I'm going to beat you if I
can. We're tied now. If you miss, I shall get you. Better not give me
any advantages."
"You can't beat me!" said Frank, looking straight into the eyes of the
Kansan.
"Do you mean that you haven't been trying to shoot? I've been watching
you, and I allow you have been doing your level best."
"You haven't watched closely, then. I threw away two shots awhile ago. I
could hardly miss them when I tried. But I'm not anxious to beat any one
to-day. I didn't come out here to make a record."
Badger flushed.
"All right. Throw away another shot and I'll beat you."
"I'll not throw away another, and you can't beat me, though you may tie
me."
He was smiling and good-humored, and the Kansan tried to be.
Badger took the next two straight, and Merriwell did the same.
"I'm afraid he is going to tie you!" grumbled Hodge.
"What's the score?" asked Rattleton, roused to the fact that Badger and
Merriwell were now really shooting against each other.
"Toodness, a guy--I mean, goodness, a tie! Don't let him beat you,
anyway, Merry!"
"That comes from being too good-natured," growled Hodge. "He wouldn't be
anywhere near you, if you'd tried."
Twice again both brought down their birds. Only a pair was left now to
each. Every member of the gun club present, together with those who,
like Badger, were being permitted to shoot through the favor of members,
and all the spectators, as well, knew now that Badger and Merriwell had
finally pitted themselves against each other in a friendly shooting
contest, with the chances in favor of a tie.
Hodge was hardly able to breathe, and Harry Rattleton was fidgeting
uneasily. The spectators craned their necks as Badger, whose trial came
first, walked into position with an air of easy confidence, that dark,
determined smile disfiguring his face.
"I'm afraid your chances are gone, Merriwell!" droned Dismal Jones. "'We
never miss the water till the well runs dry.'"
"Keep still," grunted Browning, "or you'll make me nervous!"
"I wish somebody would make Badger nervous!" wailed Bink.
"Sing out that a queen bee is coming for him!" urged Danny, in an
undertone.
"Keep still!" said Merriwell.
Badger balanced his gun, called "Pull!" and threw it into position as
the birds sprang from the trap.
A deafening explosion followed. The gun was torn to pieces and Badger
was hurled backward to the ground.