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sent, and with awful forebodings, your humble servant. The target was fixed at an elevation of about three feet from the ground; and the judges (Captain Turner and ‘Squire Porter) took their stands by it, joined by about half the spectators. The first name on the catalogue was Mealy Whitecotton. Mealy stepp ed out, rifle in hand, and toed the mark. His rifle was about three inches longer than himself, and near enough his own thickness, to make the remark of Darby Chisholm, as he stepped out, tolerably appropriate. “Here comes the corn-stock and the sucker!’ 1 said Darby. “Kiss my foot!” said Mealy, “The way I’ll creep into that bull’s eye’s a fact.” “You’d better creep into your hind sight,” said Darby. Mealy raised and fired. “A pretty good shot, Mealy,” said one. “Yes, a blamed good shot!” said a second. “Well done, Meal!” said a third. I was rejoiced when one of the com pany inquired, “Where is it?” For I could hardly believe that they were founding these remarks upon the evi dence of their senses. “Just on the right-hand side of the bull’s-eye,” was the reply. I looked with all the power of my eyes, but was unable to discover the least change in the surface of the pa per. Their report, however, was true; so much keener is the vision of a prac ticed than an unpracticed eye. The next in order was Hiram Baugh. Hiram was like some race-horses that I have seen; he was too good not to contend for every prize, and too good for nothing ever to win one. “Gentlemen,” said he, as he came to the mark, “I don’t say that I’ll win beef; but if my piece don’t blow, I’ll eat the paper, or be mighty apt to do it, if you’ll b’lieve my racket. My pow der are not good powder, gentlemen; I bought it thum (from) Zeb Daggett, and gin him three quarters of a dol lar a pound for it; but it are not what I call good powder, gentlemen; but if old Buck killer burns it clear, the boy you call Hiram Baugh eats pa per, or comes mighty near it.” “Well, blaze away,” said Mealy, “and be d —d to you, and Zeb Daggett, and your powder, and Buck killer, and your powder horn and shot pouch to boot! How long you gwine stand there talking ’fore you shoot?” “Never mind, said Hiram, “I can talk a little, and shoot a little too; but that’s nothin’. Here goes!” Hiram assumed the figure of a note of interrogation, took a long sight, and fired. “I’ve eat paper,” said he at the crack of the gun, without looking, or seem ing to look, at the target. “Buck kil ler made a clear racket. Where am I, gentlemen?” “You are just between Mealy and the diamond,” was the reply. “I said I’d eat paper, and I’ve done it; haven’t I gentlemen?” “And ’spose you have!” said Mealy, “What does that amount to? You’ll not win beef and never did.” “Be that as it mout be, I’ve beat Meal ’Cotton mighty easy; and the boy you call Hiram Baugh are able to do It.” “And what do that ’mount to? Who the devil an’t able to beat Meal ’Cot ton! I don’ make no pretense of bein’ nothin’ great, no how; but you always makes out as if you was gwine to keep ’em makin’ crosses for you con stant, and then do nothin’ but 'eat paper' at last; an’ that’s a long way from eatin’ beef, ’cordin’ to Meal ’Cot ton’s notions, as you call him.” Simon Stow was now called on. “Oh Lord!” exclaimed two or three: "Now we have it. It will take him as long to shoot as it would ’Squire Dobbins to run round a track o’ land.” “Good bye, boys,” said Bob Martin. “Where are you goin’, Bob?” “Goin’ to gather in my crop, I’ll be back again though by the time Sime Stow shoots.” Simon was used to all this, and therefore it did not disconcert him in the least. He went off and brought his own target, and set it up with his own hand. He then wiped out his rifle, rubbed the pan with his hat, drew a piece of tow through the touch-hole with his wiper, filled his charger with great care, poured the powder into the rifle with equal caution, shoved in with his finger the two or three vagrant grains that lodged round the mouth of his piece, took out a handful of bullets, looked them over carefully, selected one without a flaw, or wrinkle, drew out his patching, found the most even part of it, sprung open the grease box in the breech of his rifle, took up just as much grease, distributed it with great equality over the chosen part of his patching, laid it over the muzzle of his gun, grease side down, placed his ball upon it, pressed in a little, then took it up, turned the neck a little more perpendicularly down ward, placed his knife handle upon it, just buried it in the mouth of the rifle, cut off the redundant patching just above the bullet, looked at it, and shook his head, in token that he had cut off too much or too little, no one knew which, sent down the ball, meas ured the contents of his gun with his first and second fingers on the pro truding part of the ramrod, shook his head again to signify there was too much or too little powder, primed carefully, placed an arched piece of tin over the hind sight to shade it, took his place, got a friend to hold his hat over the foresight to shade it, took a very long sight, fired, and didn’t even eat the paper. “My piece was badly loaded,” said Simon, when he learned the place of his ball. “Oh, you didn’t take time,” said Mealy. “No man can shoot that’s in such a hurry as you is. I’d hardly got to sleep ’fore I heard the crack o’ the gun.” The next was Moses Firmby. He was a tall, slim man, of rather sallow complexion; and it is a singular fact that, though probably no part of the world is more healthful than the moun tainous parts of Georgia, the mountain eers have not generally robust frames or fine compelxions; they are, howev er, almost inexhausitble by toil. Moses kept us not long in suspense. His rifle was already charged, and he fired it upon the target with a steadi ness of nerve and aim that was as tonishing to me, and alarming to aU the rest. A few seconds, and the re port of his rifle broke the deathlike silence that prevailed. “No great harm done yet,” said Spivey, manifestly relieved from anx iety by an event which seemed to me to be better calculated to produce de spair. Firmby’s ball had cut out the lower angle of the diamond, directly on the right line with the cross. Three or four followed him without bettering his shot; all of whom, how ever, with one exception “eat the pa per.” It now came to Spivey’s turn. There was nothing remarkable in his person or manner. He took his place, low ered his rifle slowly from a perpen dicular until It came on a line with the mark, held it there like a vice for a moment, and fired. “Pretty sevigrous, but nothing kill ed yet,” said Billy Curlew, as he learned the place of Spivey’s ball. Spivey’s ball had just broken the upper angle of the diamond; beat ing Firmby about half its width. A few more shots in which there was nothing remarkable, brought ns TfiE WEEKLY JEFFERSONIAN. to Billy Curlew. Billy stepped out with much confidence, and brougnt the soap stick to an order, while he deliberately rolled up his shirt sleeves. Had I judged of Billy’s chance for success from the looks of his gun, I should have said it was hopeless. The stock of Soap stick seemed to have been made with a case knife; and had it been, the tool would have been a poor apology for its clumsy appear ance. An augur hole in the breech served for a grease box; a cotton string assisted a single screw in hold ing on the block; and the thimbles were made, one of brass, one of iron, and one of tin. “Where’s Lark Spivey’s bullet?” called out Billy to the judges, as he finished rolling up his sleeves. “About three quarters of an inch from the cross,” was the reply. “Well, clear the way, the Soap stick’s coming and she’ll be along in there among them presently.” Billy now planted himself astraddle, like an inverted V; shot forward his left hip, drew his body back to an angle of about forty-five degrees with the plane of the horizon, brought his cheek down close to the breech of his old Soap stick, and fixed her upon the mark with untrembling hand. His sight was long, and the swelling mus cles of his left hand, led me to be lieve that he was lessening his chance of success with every second that he kept it burdened with his ponderous rifle; but it neither flagged, nor wa vered, until Soap stick made her re port. “Where am I?” said Billy, as the smoke rose from before his eye. “Youv’e jist touched the cross on the lower side,” was the reply of one of the judges. “I was afraid I was drawing my bead a leetle too fine," said Billy. “Now, Lyman, you see what the Soap stick can do. Take her, and show the boys how you used to do when you was a baby.” I begged to reserve my shot until the last; pleading rather sophistically, that it was, in point of fact, one of Billy’s shots. My plea was rather indulged than sustained, and the marksmen who had taken more than one shot commenced the second round. This round was a manifest improvement upon the first. The cross was driven three times; once by Spivey, once by Firmby, and once by no less a per sonage than Mealy Whitecotton, whom chance seemed to favor for this time, merely that he might retaliate upon Hiram Baugh, and the bull’s eye was disfigured out of all shape. The third and fourth rounds were all shot. Billy discharged his last shot, which left the rights of parties thus: Billy Curlew, first and fourth choice. Spivey second, Firmby third, and Whitecotton fifth. Some of my readers may be curious to learn how a distinction comes to be made between several, all of whom drive the cross. The distinction is perfectly natural and equitable. Threads are stretched from the undefaced parts of the once intersecting lines, by means of which the original position of the cross is precisely ascertained. Each bullethole being nicely pegged up as it is made, it is easy to ascertain its circumfer ence. To this I believe they usually, if not invariably, measure, where none of the balls touch the cross; but if the cross be driven, they measure from it to the center of the bullet hole. To make a draw shot, therefore, between two who drive the cross, it is necessa ry that the center of both balls should pass directly through the cross; a thing that very rarely happens. The Bite alone remained to shoot Billy wiped out his rifle carefully, loaded her to the top of his skill, and handed her to me. "Now,” said he. "Lyman, draw a fine bead, but (Continued on page 10.) GRAIN THRESHERS in combination with Foes Gasoline ...Engines Dunn Machinery Compary 54 Marietta St., ATLANTA, GA Nessmith & Bonney General Southern Agents for THE BROWN-COCHRAN CO. f‘MB j. j --x/iy J ~ A ' .J.,. Gas 6 Gasoline Engines STATIONARY, PORTABLE, MARINE and ELECTRIC LIGHT, ICE AND RE FRIGERATING MACHINERY. WOOD AND STEEL TANKS STEEL TOWERS A high grade Engine. One of the greatest labor savers of the day. 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