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Updated: May 27, 2025
"Ye've found a fair provost at the job, Barshalloch," one of them hiccupped. "Better quit and pay for the mutchkin." My antagonist took every care with his last shot, and, just missing the cockade, hit the hat about the middle, cut the branch on which it rested, and brought it fluttering to the ground a pace or two farther on.
The thing was hung as a target in a leafless cherry tree at twenty paces, and the cockade was to be the centre mark. Each man was to fire three shots apiece. Barshalloch for so his companions called my opponent after his lairdship made a great to-do about the loading, and would not be content till he had drawn the charge two three times.
Barshalloch very handsomely complimented me, and sent for the mutchkin. His words made me warm towards him, and I told him that half the business was not my skill of shooting but the weapon I carried. He begged for a look at it, and examined it long and carefully. "Will ye sell, friend?" he asked.
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