The Dog Crusoe and His Master. R.M. Ballantyne

bent, when the muscles were strung, than an iron post. No one wrestled with Henri unless he wished to have his back broken. Few could equal and none could beat him at running or leaping except Dick Varley. When Henri ran a race even Joe Blunt laughed outright, for arms and legs went like independent flails. When he leaped, he hurled himself into space with a degree of violence that seemed to insure a somersault—yet he always came down with a crash on his feet. Plunging was Henri’s forte. He generally lounged about the settlement, when unoccupied, with his hands behind his back, apparently in a reverie, and when called on to act, he seemed to fancy he must have lost time, and could only make up for it by plunging. This habit got him into many awkward scrapes, but his herculean power as often got him out of them. He was a French-Canadian, and a particularly bad speaker of the English language.

      We offer no apology for this elaborate introduction of Henri, for he was as good-hearted a fellow as ever lived, and deserves special notice.

      But to return. The sort of rifle practice called “driving the nail,” by which this match was to be decided, was, and we believe still is, common among the hunters of the far west. It consisted in this,—an ordinary large-headed nail was driven a short way into a plank or a tree, and the hunters, standing at a distance of fifty yards or so, fired at it until they succeeded in driving it home. On the present occasion the major resolved to test their shooting by making the distance seventy yards.

      Some of the older men shook their heads.

      “It’s too far,” said one; “ye might as well try to snuff the nose o’ a mosquito.”

      “Jim Scraggs is the only man as’ll hit that,” said another.

      The man referred to was a long, lank, lantern-jawed fellow with a cross-grained expression of countenance. He used the long, heavy, Kentucky rifle, which, from the ball being little larger than a pea, was called a pea-rifle. Jim was no favourite, and had been named Scraggs by his companions on account of his appearance.

      In a few minutes the lots were drawn, and the shooting began. Each hunter wiped out the barrel of his piece with his ramrod as he stepped forward; then, placing a ball in the palm of his left hand, he drew the stopper of his powder-horn with his teeth, and poured out as much powder as sufficed to cover the bullet. This was the regular measure among them. Little time was lost in firing, for these men did not “hang” on their aim. The point of the rifle was slowly raised to the object, and, the instant the sight covered it, the ball sped to its mark. In a few minutes the nail was encircled by bullet-holes, scarcely two of which were more than an inch distant from the mark, and one—fired by Joe Blunt—entered the tree close beside it.

      “Ah, Joe!” said the major, “I thought you would have carried off the prize.”

      “So did not I, sir,” returned Blunt, with a shake of his head. “Had it a-bin a half-dollar at a hundred yards, I’d ha’ done better, but I never could hit the nail. It’s too small to see.”

      “That’s cos ye’ve got no eyes,” remarked Jim Scraggs, with a sneer, as he stepped forward.

      All tongues were now hushed, for the expected champion was about to fire. The sharp crack of the rifle was followed by a shout, for Jim had hit the nail-head on the edge, and part of the bullet stuck to it.

      “That wins if there’s no better,” said the major, scarce able to conceal his disappointment. “Who comes next?”

      To this question Henri answered by stepping up to the line, straddling his legs, and executing preliminary movements with his rifle, that seemed to indicate an intention on his part to throw the weapon bodily at the mark. He was received with a shout of mingled laughter and applause. After gazing steadily at the mark for a few seconds, a broad grin overspread his countenance, and, looking round at his companions, he said—“Ha! mes boys, I cannot behold de nail at all!”

      “Can ye ‘behold’ the tree?” shouted a voice, when the laugh that followed this announcement had somewhat abated.

      “Oh! oui,” replied Henri quite coolly; “I can see him, an’ a goot small bit of de forest beyond.”

      “Fire at it, then. If ye hit the tree ye desarve the rifle—leastwise ye ought to get the pup.”

      Henri grinned again, and fired instantly, without taking aim.

      The shot was followed by an exclamation of surprise, for the bullet was found close beside the nail!

      “It’s more be good luck than good shootin’,” remarked Jim Scraggs.

      “Possiblement,” answered Henri modestly, as he retreated to the rear and wiped out his rifle; “mais I have kill most of my deer by dat same goot luck.”

      “Bravo! Henri,” said Major Hope as he passed; “you deserve to win, anyhow. Who’s next?”

      “Dick Varley,” cried several voices; “where’s Varley? Come on, youngster, an’ take yer shot.”

      The youth came forward with evident reluctance. “It’s of no manner o’ use,” he whispered to Joe Blunt as he passed, “I can’t depend on my old gun.”

      “Never give in,” whispered Blunt encouragingly. Poor Varley’s want of confidence in his rifle was merited, for, on pulling the trigger, the faithless lock missed fire.

      “Lend him another gun,” cried several voices. “’Gainst rules laid down by Major Hope,” said Scraggs.

      “Well, so it is; try again.”

      Varley did try again, and so successfully, too, that the ball hit the nail on the head, leaving a portion of the lead sticking to its edge.

      Of course this was greeted with a cheer, and a loud dispute began as to which was the better shot of the two.

      “There are others to shoot yet,” cried the major. “Make way. Look out.”

      The men fell back, and the few hunters who had not yet fired took their shots, but without coming nearer the mark.

      It was now agreed that Jim Scraggs and Dick Varley, being the two best shots, should try over again; and it was also agreed that Dick should have the use of Blunt’s rifle. Lots were again drawn for the first shot, and it fell to Dick, who immediately stepped out, aimed somewhat hastily, and fired.

      “Hit again!” shouted those who had run forward to examine the mark. “Half the bullet cut off by the nail-head!”

      Some of the more enthusiastic of Dick’s friends cheered lustily, but the most of the hunters were grave and silent, for they knew Jim’s powers, and felt that he would certainly do his best. Jim now stepped up to the line, and, looking earnestly at the mark, threw forward his rifle.

      At that moment our friend Crusoe—tired of tormenting his mother—waddled stupidly and innocently into the midst of the crowd of men, and, in so doing, received Henri’s heel and the full weight of his elephantine body on its fore-paw. The horrible and electric yell that instantly issued from his agonised throat could only be compared, as Joe Blunt expressed it, “to the last dyin’ screech o’ a bustin’ steam biler!” We cannot say that the effect was startling, for these backwoodsmen had been born and bred in the midst of alarms, and were so used to them that a “bustin’ steam biler” itself, unless it had blown them fairly off their legs, would not have startled them. But the effect, such as it was, was sufficient to disconcert the aim of Jim Scraggs, who fired at the same instant, and missed the nail by a hair’s-breadth.

      Turning round in towering wrath, Scraggs aimed a kick at the poor pup, which, had it taken effect, would certainly have terminated the innocent existence of that remarkable dog on the spot, but quick as lightning Henri interposed the butt of his rifle, and Jim’s shin met it with a violence that caused him to howl with rage and pain.

      “Oh! pardon me, broder,” cried Henri, shrinking back, with the drollest expression of mingled pity and glee.

      Jim’s discretion, on this occasion, was superior to his valour; he turned away with