One afternoon I was in the shooting alley I have spoken of, making trial of a new size of bullet I had moulded.

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.