The place was
just behind Parlane's tavern, and some gentlemen, who had been drinking
there, came out to cool their heads and see the sport. Most of them
were cock-lairds from the Lennox, and, after the Highland fashion, had
in their belts heavy pistols of the old kind which folk called "dags."
They were cumbrous, ill-made things, gaudily ornamented with silver and
Damascus work, fit ornaments for a savage Highland chief, but little
good for serious business, unless a man were only a pace or two from
his opponent. One of them, who had drunk less than the others, came up
to me and very civilly proposed a match. I was nothing loath, so a
course was fixed, and a mutchkin of French _eau de vie_ named as the
prize. I borrowed an old hat from the landlord which had stuck in its
side a small red cockade. 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. The spin of a
coin gave him first shot, and he missed the mark and cut the bole of
the tree.
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