"Of course, I
remember; you're right."
"All right," Thorne was agreeing, "but make it short. We've got a lot to
do."
Ware selected another target--one intended for the six-shooters--that
had not been used. This he tacked up in place of the one already
disfigured by many shots. Then he paced off twelve yards.
"That looks easier than the other," Thorne commented.
"Mebbe," agreed Ware, non-committally, "but you may change your mind. As
for that sort of monkey-work," he indicated the discarded target, "down
our way we'd as soon shoot at a barn."
The girl softly clapped her hands.
"'_For his own part_,'" she quoted in a breath, and so rapidly that the
words fairly tumbled over one another, "'_in the land where he was bred,
men would as soon take for their mark King Arthur's round table, which
held sixty knights around it. A child of seven might hit yonder target
with a headless shaft_.' Oh, this is perfect."
"Now," said Ware to young Elliott, "if you'll hit that mark in my
fashion of shooting, you're all right."
Bob turned to the girl, his eyes dancing with delight.
"'--_he that hits yon mark at I-forget-how-many yards_,'" he declaimed,
"'_I will call him an archer fit to bear bow before a king_'--or
something to that effect; I'm afraid I'm not letter perfect.
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