My bird fell dead inside of Orme's. A murmur of applause ran down
the line. "Silence in the court," thundered Judge Reeves.
We shot along for ten birds, and Orme was straight, to my nine killed.
Stevenson whispered to me once more. "Take it easy, and don't be worried
about it. It's a long road to a hundred. Don't think about your next
bird, and don't worry whether he kills his or not. Just you kill 'em
one at a time and kill each one dead. You mustn't think of anything on
earth but that one bird before you."
This was excellent advice in the game, and I nodded to him. Whatever the
cause, I was by this time perfectly calm. I was now accustomed to my
gun, and had confidence in it. I knew I could shoot to the top of my
skill, and if I were beaten it would be through no fault of my own
nerves and muscles, but through the luck of the birds or the greater
skill of the other man.
Orme went on as though he could kill a hundred straight. His time was
perfect, and his style at the trap beautiful. He shot carelessly, but
with absolute confidence, and more than half the time he did not use his
second barrel.
"Old Virginia never tires," whispered Stevenson. "He'll come back to you
before long, never fear.
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