Something Like a Good Shot — 136
Two passengers coming down the Mississippi in a steamboat were amusing themselves with shooting birds on the shore from the deck. Some sporting conversation ensued; one remarked that he would turn his back to no man in killing racoons—that he had repeatedly shot fifty a day. “What o’ that?” said a Kentuckian; “I make nothing of killing a hundred ’coon a day, or’nary luck.” “Do you know Captain Scott, of our State?” asked a Tennessean bystander; “he, now, is something like a shot. A hundred ’coon! why he never points at one without hitting him. He never misses, and the ‘coons know it. T’other day he levelled at an old ’un, in a high tree; the varmint looked at him a minute, and then bawled out, ‘Hallo, Cap’n Scott, is that you?’ ‘Yes,’ was the reply. ‘Well, pray don’t shoot, I’ll come down to you—I’ll give in—I’m dead beat.’”