An awful doubt had insinuated itself into the soul of Slim Boggins.

It was in the Po’ Chance country that we found ourselves on Thanksgiving afternoon, and here we ran into one Slim Boggins, a neighborhood character famed for his shooting prowess and not in the least averse to demonstrating it.

“Have you gents ever heard of a fellow who can drap fo’ birds on a rise?” he pushed his cap back and asked.

We didn’t think we had. With an occasional fluke shot maybe, but certainly not with any measure of consistency.

Was there such a fellow?

“You air talkin’ to him now. Slim Boggins by name. My ole she-bitch is trailin’ yonder. Come on over and I’ll give y’all a demonstratin’.”

Striding loose-jointedly behind his dog, he kicked up a covey and neatly dropped four birds on a simultaneous flush.

Furthermore, he made it look easy, almost inevitable, in fact.

“That air is what I mean, gents. And I ain’t usin’ no fancy autymatic neither. Jes’ this here ole flippity-flop pump gun. Shucks, ’tain’t nothin’,” he discounted.

I looked at Cliff and Cliff looked at me, and we conveyed a lot without saying anything. This cocky, self-contained, and unbookish fellow, this gangling son of the swamp, was the nearest thing to a natural shot we had ever seen. And the ancient pump which he fondled was as nerveless and supple-jointed as its owner. Never tell me that a repeater can’t compete with an automatic in speed!

“Two birds fromped down in that broomstraw yonder. Come on over and I’ll give you gents another demonstratin’,” our uninvited guest announced.

A few minutes later the gaunt “ole she-bitch” pointed and her gangling master beckoned to us. “Now I’ll th’ow this ole gun on the ground till the birds get up. Then I’ll grab her and politely drap ’em both.”

Two birds hurtled away toward a pine thicket. Slim swooped down, retrieved his gun, and dropped them both. And they were as dead as a quarter past four when they hit.

“’Tain’t nothin’,” he manfully deprecated. “Also shoots ’em from the hip. If you gents want a free sample—”

Cliff and I were impressed by this backwoods paragon. We were also scared. If this “demonstratin’” kept up, there would be precious few birds left in Po’ Chance. This two-legged epidemic that called himself Slim Boggins had to be curbed in some way.

With his usual resourcefulness, Cliff launched the attack. A flank attack it proved to be, and its very simplicity at first baffled me.

“Most wonderful shooting we have ever seen, and we are indebted to you for the exhibition,” Cliff laid the groundwork. “It probably won’t improve our shooting any, but may I ask you one question?”

“Shore, shore. Anything to oblige,” expansively offered our Mr. Boggins.

“Do you practice monocular or binocular shooting?”

“Says how much?” Slim blinked.

“Do you shoot with one eye closed, or with both open?” Cliff pursued.

“Aw, that. Funny thing, I ain’t never noticed. Never crossed my mind till you brung it up. Funny, ain’t it? Tell you what, I’ll take notice and let you gents know. It mout help y’all some. That’s me, Slim Boggins.”

Fleet had a single at the base of a cypress stump. I raised my gun, but Cliff shook his head. The bird flew as straight as a martin to its gourd. Slim raised his gun and confidently banged away. Then he banged again, but the bird reached the haven of the swamp untouched. A frown of perplexity gathered on Slim’s face, but it was quickly dissipated.

“Shucks. Had my left eye closed that time. That ain’t the way I been doing it. I shoot with both eyes open. It’s come to me now. Show you gents next time,” he quickly reassured himself.

A few minutes later Carrie froze at the edge of a pea patch. Two birds got up and sauntered straight down main street. Slim pumped away four times, but nary a feather did he cut. Stock-still he stood, enveloped in an awful silence. The shadow of amazed disbelief crept over his face. Picking up an empty cartridge, he absently fingered it, then shook his head as if to dispel a grisly vision.

“Great balls of fire! I helt both eyes open that time. That must not be the way I do it either!”

An awful doubt had insinuated itself into the soul of Slim Boggins. He eyed his dog distrustfully and regarded his faithful old pump with newfound suspicion, as if the wife of his bosom had unaccountably betrayed him.

“Jes’ happened to think,” he explained limply. “Got fo’ cows to milk when I get home. If you gents will excuse me—” And he sloped off across the field.