“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen,” he said. “Since we don’t hold this contest very often, I shall have to remind you of the rules before we start. Every contestant’s name goes into the hat, and they shoot in the order in which they are drawn out by His Worship the Mayor. One shot only, and—”

“Hang on!” That was Max, struggling forward.

“What is it?” said the referee, bending down to see what the matter was.

“Is it too late to enter?”

“No,” said the referee. “Just write your name on here and give it in.”

Max scribbled on the card the referee handed him, while Herr Stanger explained the rest of the rules. Max ducked under the rope and Eliza blew him a kiss. I thought: They’ll never let him! But Lucy and Charlotte were waving, too. Max rubbed his hands and shaded his eyes to look at the target.

“Right!” said the referee. “And now, if His Worship will be so kind…”

One of the officials held out a cocked hat to Herr Kessel, and he dipped a fat little hand into it and handed a card to the referee.

“The first man to shoot is…Adolf Brandt,” said Herr Stanger.

One of the contestants called out, “That’s me, sir!” and stepped forward and took aim. He fired, and the noise echoed all round the green, but the target didn’t budge. The marksman stepped away, disappointed; so much hanging on just one shot! But now the next man was shooting—and with the same result. The third name to come out of the hat was that of Rudi Gallmeyer from the village, and a cheer went up as he came to take his place and shoot; but he too missed.

“It must be harder than it looks,” said Lucy.

Another two names were called, another two shots echoed round the green, another two disappointed marksmen went back to join their fellows. Then:

“Max Grindoff,” called the referee.

“Ooh! Maxie! It’s you!” cried Eliza, and Lucy and Charlotte shouted, “Good luck!”

Max stepped forward. The spectators could see that he had no musket, and there was a buzz of surprise as he shaded his eyes to look hard at the target, put something (the dried pea, I suppose) in his mouth, and then set the long shiny coach-horn to his lips. He took a great lungful of breath.

“Just a minute,” said the referee. “What’s all this?”

Max put the coach-horn down. “It’s a blowpipe,” he said. “From Brazil.”

Herr Kessel the Mayor came to the edge of the platform and looked down his nose in disapproval. “I can’t have that,” he said. “It’s against all the dignity of the contest.”

Herr Stanger the referee shook his head dubiously. Eliza, beside me, was biting her lip in suspense.