The trap was set in the long grass on the edge of the meadow near the
woods; Allison was performing the unexciting task of pulling the string
and releasing the skimming disks. When Irving came up, Smythe was
finishing; he did not appear to be much of a shot, for he missed three
out of the seven “birds” which Irving saw him try for.

Then it was Westby’s turn. Westby had got himself up for the occasion,
in a Norfolk jacket and knickerbockers and leggings; he was always
scrupulous about appearing in costumes that were extravagantly correct.
He saw Irving and somewhat ostentatiously turned away.

Irving waited and looked on. Westby stood in an almost negligent
attitude, with his gun lowered; the trap was sprung, the clay pigeon
flew—and then was shattered in the midst of its flight. It seemed to
Irving that Westby hardly brought his gun to his shoulder to take aim.
It could not all be luck either; that was evident when Westby demolished
ten clay pigeons in rapid succession. It was Carroll’s turn now; Westby,
having made his perfect score, blew the smoke from the breech and stood
by.

Irving went up to him.

“I congratulate you on your shooting, Westby,” he said. “It seems quite
wonderful to a man who never fired a gun off but a few times in his
life—and then it was a revolver, with blank cartridges.”

Westby looked at him coolly. “It’s funny you’ve never done anything that
most fellows do,” he observed. “Were you always afraid of hurting
yourself?”