"Don't be too sure."
"Bosh! There's no one here who can handle a bow but Charlie
Stympson. One Alison is a spoon, and the other is a giant made to
be conquered. When he shot before, his arrows went right over the
grounds, and stuck into a jackdaw's nest on the church tower! I
can't think why he came."
"To make a feather in your cap."
"What a substantial one!"
There I escaped to a seat by Lady Diana, where Viola could expend her
enthusiasm in clutches and squeezes of my hand. Eustace was by this
time wrought up to such a state that he hardly knew what he was
doing, and his first arrow wavered and went feebly aside. Two or
three more shot, and then the tall figure came to the front; one
moment, and the cry was "Gold," while Viola's clap of the hands
brought on her a frown from her mother, who thought demonstrativeness
improper. She had to content herself with pinching my fingers every
time one of those shafts went home to the heart of the target, and
Harold stood, only too facile princeps, while Eustace sauntered up to
us with the old story about the sun or the damp, I forget which, only
it was something that had spoilt his archery.
Hippolyta was undaunted. The small target and longer range had
thrown out many a competitor before now, and her not very low-pitched
tone was heard observing that no dumb giant should beat her at her
own tools.
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