276 
FOREST AND STREAM. 
[Aug. 14, 1909. 
396 out of 400 
99 PER CENT. 
The above remarkable score was made by 
Arthur Killam, at Fayette, Mo., Aug. 3 and 4, 1909 
Arthur Killam, of St. Louis. 
Mr. Killam had runs of 150 Unfinished and 112. 
Mr. W. R. Crosby also ran 112 and 101 straight. 
Both the above gentlemen used 
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though, by Jove, I hardly ever hit anything.. I’m 
an awfully bad shot, you know, don’t think 1 
ever killed anything I aimed at, in my life, I 
assure you.” 
The squire was much amused with the stranger, 
and thinking it a good opportunity of being 
generous on the cheap, invited him to come over 
to have a day’s sport. So it was agreed that 
“Mr. Pelham”—such was the name by which the 
dandy had been introduced—should breakfast 
with the squire the next morning, and accom¬ 
pany his host to the coverts. The morning came, 
and with it the guest, not in the customary 
shooting garb, but in a sort of ball dress, with 
shoes and silk stockings. The squire eyed him 
with mingled amusement and contempt, summed 
him up as being no sportsman, and feeling sure 
that his pheasants were quite safe, made some 
excuse for not accompanying him, for he knew 
that the mincing gait and dandy air of his guest 
would provoke unseemly laughter. . So off went 
“Mr. Pelham” with the keeper, while the squire, 
shaking with merriment, watched them from a 
window. About an hour later, the keeper rushed 
in out of breath. 
“Beg pardon, sir, but that gentleman in the 
dancing shoes and—.” 
“It’s all right, William,” interrupted his mas¬ 
ter, complacently, “he has my permission. There 
will be nothing to frighten the birds, except the 
sight of his pumps and silk stockings; he never 
shot anything in his life.” 
“Then he’s begun with a vengeance, sir.” 
“What do you mean?” asked the squire, start¬ 
ing up. 
“Why, he’s a bringin’ of ’em down right, and 
left like winkin’, never misses; and he’s killed, 
Lord knows how many already!” 
“What!” screamed the squire. “The devil he 
has. I must see to this.” 
And waiting to hear no more, he flew, hatless, 
to the covert, directed by the rapid and incessant 
crack of the gun. When he came up with “Mr. 
Pelham” he found that the dandy who “never 
hit anything, by Jove,” had already bagged five 
hares and thirty pheasants. 
“What’s the meaning of this, sir?” demanded 
the squire, white with passion. “I thought you 
told me you never killed anything.” 
“Did I?” said the dandy, coolly, bringing down 
a fine cock pheasant as he spoke. 
“Stop, sir! This is not sport, this is murder!” 
cried the agonized preserver. But the other 
calmly dropped another bird with his second 
barrel. 
“Stop, I say! Who and what the devil are 
you, sir ?” 
“Captain Ross, at your service,” answered the 
dandy with a very low bow. “Don’t be annoyed, 
my dear sir. It is only to decide a little wager 
that I would get a day’s shooting out of you. 
There is no harm done; keep your game; you 
can sell it to the poulterer. Good morning.” 
And taking off his hat, the dandy “Mr. Pel¬ 
ham,” with another low bow, turned upon his 
heel, leaving the stingy old squire speechless 
with rage and mortification. 
Of Captain Ross’s remarkable skill as a marks¬ 
man, both with rifle and pistol, there are many 
extraordinary stories, but perhaps none more 
notable than the following, related by an eye¬ 
witness in the year 1835. “I saw him,” writes 
this gentleman, “hit a black wafer fixed on the 
back of a common card 260 times out of 300 
shots. Calling on Captain Ross one morning, I 
found him practising at fourteen yards. He 
then presented his pistol out of the drawing¬ 
room window, and said: ‘Now you shall see me 
take the head off the figure on Barry Smith’s 
house. This was a small gilt figure of Hope, 
about five inches in length, placed between the 
windows to show that the house was insured 
in the Hope Insurance Office. He lodged the 
ball in the left breast. ‘That won’t do,’ said he, 
‘I must have the head off.’ ‘Is it not danger¬ 
ous?’ I said. ‘There is Barry Smith and a friend 
sitting close by.’ ‘Oh, no,’ he replied coolly. ‘I 
have perfect confidence in my pistol.’ He fired 
again and shot off the head. The distance 
across the street was certainly not less than 
fifteen yards, but the space from the figure to the 
chairs on which Barry Smith and his friend were 
