A SHORT SHOOTING MATCH. 



LEWIS HOPKINS. 



I doubt the good quality of the " sporting 

 blood " of any man who will not claim his 

 gun, dog, horse and boat superior to any 

 others. A real, keen, thoroughbred sports- 

 man, the kind of man your soul knits to, 

 has abiding and abundant faith in himself 

 and all that is his. 



I saw such a one's first test many years 

 ago. He was a boy out hunting with an 

 old, battered, dilapidated musket, that at 

 ioo feet would probably scatter shot over 

 a 50 foot circle. He met 2 other boys, who 

 carried gffhs. Then there was a warm dis- 

 cussion of the merits of the weapons. 



The embryo sportsman with the musket 

 made a gallant fight; but was forced to 

 abandon point after point by the evident 

 superiority of the other guns, and the com- 

 bined eloquence of their champions. Fi- 

 nally, in apparent desperation, he took his 

 last stand on this claim of merit: " I don't 

 care what you say about her shootin' and 

 looks; she'll jest nache'ly out kick both 

 your old guns put together." 



And standing on that point of superiority 

 I left him, stern and defiant. 



A few years ago I knew a man who 

 hunted on the prairies of Illinois — hunted 

 from daylight until dark the season 

 through. His sporting ethics were not 

 wholly orthodox, but lack of genuine en- 

 thusiasm was not one of his heterodoxies. 

 One experience had with him was not at all 

 creditable to me; but I hope to disarm 

 hostile criticism by confessing my fault. 



My friend's name was Joe Lett. He had 

 a good dog, a good gun and he was a 

 good shot. These facts he knew and 

 was ready to maintain. I had a good gun, 

 was a good shot, and my dog would have 

 been a good one, if I had had a dog. We 

 hunted together for several weeks for 

 prairie chickens and quails. It was getting 

 late for chickens, and the few left were 

 flushing wild and flying strong. 



We finally made one last chicken hunt 

 with some heavily loaded shells, shooting 

 No. 6 chilled shot; but with little success, 

 and badly pounded shoulders. We then 

 determined to devote our time wholly to 

 quails, loading up for that purpose a lot 

 of light shells with No. 12 shot. 



Evenly matched as field shots, and I 

 having no dog, there was but one thing 

 to contest, and that was the shooting qual- 

 ity of our guns. We were soon in a friend- 

 ly, but vigorous, contest over this impor- 

 tant question. They were both hammer 

 breech loaders, different make, but about 

 the same grade, weight and size. As a 

 matter of fact there was very little differ- 

 ence in the shooting qualities of the guns. 



Coming in from a short trip one day, we 

 allowed ourselves to grow more than usu- 

 ally heated over the gun question. We 

 were walking the railroad tracks, when a 

 bird flushed and flew straight away. 



Joe drew on it, calling out, " See me 

 kill him after he passes the telegraph pole.*' 

 That was a distance of 60 yards or more, 

 and rather far for No. 12 shot, and light 

 loads. Ranging up beside him instantly, 

 I said, " See me kill him after you miss." 

 Joe fired, and missed. An instant iater I 

 fired and, to my great surprise, killed. Of 

 course it was one of those accidents often 

 seen in shooting — a case of one shot hap- 

 pening to find a vital spot. But I pro- 

 ceeded to make capital of it, and belittle 

 the rival gun. Joe, of course, championed 

 his gun bravely as ever, but it was my day. 



Finally, feeling bound to make an effort 

 to retrieve lost ground, he said, " Now 

 you know that shot was but an accident, 

 and no real test of the guns. Let us, right 

 here and now, give them a fair test of 

 some kind." I expressed my willingness. 



He thereupon suggested that we each 

 shoot at the other's hat, hung on the fence 

 at the side of the road. 



To this I assented. Our hats were alike, 

 both new, soft, black, crush felts. 



Stepping to a post I hung up my hat and 

 told Joe to go down the track as far as he 

 thought proper and hang up his. Then 

 each would stand opposite his own hat and 

 take one shot at the other. 



Walking about 25 steps he turned and 

 asked if that would do. It was close, but 

 not caring to cry for quarter, and knowing 

 No. 12 shot would not be much more ef- 

 fective on tough felt than coarse sand would, 

 I said the distance was satisfactory to me. 

 Joe walked to the fence to deposit his hat 

 on a post. There was nothing farther from 

 my mind — up to that time — than the idea of 

 taking any unfair advantage; but while 

 buttoning my coat, my hand came in con- 

 tact with a hard substance in an upper 

 pocket. It flashed over me that there was 

 the sole survivor of those overcharged 

 chicken shells loaded with chilled 6s. Well, 

 I was only human, and young besides. Out 

 came the little light shell from the close 

 choked left barrel, and in went the great 

 murderous charge. I thought of the report 

 arousing suspicion, but a strong wind in 

 my favor minimized this danger. 



" Are you ready? " called Joe. 



" Yes, go ahead," I replied. 



He raised his gun, took aim and fired. 



My hat made a barely perceptible move- 

 ment, and was still. " Your turn now," 

 said Joe. 



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