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Updated: June 5, 2025
"Why, that ought to make you prouder than the other," said I, "for a lark, especially when it's soaring, must be a good deal harder to hit than an eagle." "That's so," said Pepton, reflectively. "But I'll stick to the lark. I'm proud."
He had been steadily improving since he had adopted a good style of shooting, but he had had no idea that he would that day be able to win the badge. When our president pinned the emblem of success upon the lapel of his coat, Pepton turned pale, and then he flushed.
We were bound to see the fun out, and to fill up the time our president offered a special prize of a handsome bouquet from his gardens, to be shot for by the ladies. Pepton ran to the railroad station, and telegraphed to the champion. This was his message: "You are absolutely needed here. If possible, take the five-thirty train for Ackford. I will drive over for you. Answer."
But she was not discouraged, and Pepton often assured her that if she would keep up a good heart, and practise regularly, she would get the badge yet. As a rule, Pepton was so honest and truthful that a little statement of this kind, especially under the circumstances, might be forgiven him. One day Pepton came to me and announced that he had made a discovery.
"I should have to stir them up a good deal before I could do it," I replied. "It would be a hard thing to shoot an eagle with an arrow. If you want a stuffed bird to bequeath, you'd better use a rifle." "A rifle!" exclaimed Pepton. "There would be no glory in that. There are lots of birds shot with rifles eagles, hawks, wild geese, tomtits " "Oh, no!" I interrupted, "not tomtits."
"There is something statuesque about her," said Pepton, who ardently admired her, "and yet there isn't. A statue could never equal her unless we knew there was a probability of movement in it. And the only statues which have that are the Jarley wax-works, which she does not resemble in the least.
If any visitor who knew anything at all of archery should see that the member who wore the champion's badge was a man who held his bow as if he had the stomach-ache, it would ruin our character as a club. It was not to be borne. Pepton in particular felt greatly outraged.
He stood up, straight and firm on the line, at thirty-five yards from the gentlemen's target; he carefully selected his arrows, examining the feathers and wiping away any bit of soil that might be adhering to the points after some one had shot them into the turf; with vigorous arm he drew each arrow to its head; he fixed his eyes and his whole mind on the centre of the target; he shot his twenty-four arrows, handed to him, one by one, by Pepton, and he made a score of ninety-one.
"That is very true," I answered, "especially in these days, when there are so few eagles and so many targets. But what is your other diadem?" "That," said Pepton, "is to see Miss Rosa wear the badge." "Indeed!" said I. And from that moment I began to understand Pepton's hopes in regard to the grandmother of those children who should point to the eagle.
In all the surface of the much-perforated targets of the club, there was scarcely a hole that he could put his hand upon his heart and say he made. Indeed, I think it was the truth that Pepton was born not to be an archer.
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