"Then you shall, Smithe. I'll bring you together when you come to town.
Leave that to me; a nice little party: Mulligatawny, Sir Percy
Whiffler, Colonel Owlfinch of the 1st Life Guards--they're at Beggar's
Bush now, I suppose--Belgum, yourself, and myself."
This was very considerate and flattering; and I heartily hoped that by
some fluke or other we might be enabled to make a bag.
When we arrived upon the shooting-ground, I observed that it was time
to load; and calling up Billy Doyle with the guns, I proceeded to carry
my precept into practice. My weapon was an old-fashioned muzzle-loader,
one of Truelock & Harris's; and as I went through the process of
loading, I could see that Mr Simpson was regarding my movements with a
careful and critical eye.
"I know that you swells despise this sort of thing," I remarked; "but I
have dropped a good many birds with this gun at pretty long ranges, and
have wiped the eyes of many a breech-loading party."
"I--I like that sort of gun," said Simpson. "I'd be glad if you'd take
this," presenting his, with both barrels covering me.
"Good heavens, don't do that!" I cried, shoving the muzzle aside.
"What--what--" he cried, whirling round like a teetotum--"what have I
done?"
"Nothing as yet; but I hate to have the muzzle of a gun turned towards
me since the day I saw poor cousin Jack's brains blown out."
"What am I to do?" exclaimed Simpson. "I'll do anything."
"It's all right," I replied; "you won't mind my old-world stupidity."
My guest's gun was a central-fire breech-loader of Rigby's newest type,
which he commenced to prepare for action in what seemed to me to be a
very bungling sort of way. He dropped it twice, and in releasing the
barrels, brought them into very violent collision with his head, which
caused the waters of anguish to roll silently down his cheeks and on to
his pointed moustache. If I had not been aware of his manifold
experiences in the shooting line, I could have set him down as a man
who had never handled a gun in his life; but knowing his powers and
prowess, I ascribed his awkwardness to simple carelessness, a
carelessness in all probability due to the smallness of the game of
which he was now in pursuit. I therefore refrained from taking any
notice, and from making any observation until he deliberately proceeded
to thrust a patent cartridge into the _muzzle_ of the barrel of
his central-fire.
"Hold hard, Mr Simpson; you are surely only jesting."
"Jesting! How do you mean?"
"Why, using that cartridge in the way you are doing."
"What other way should I use it?"
"May I again remind you that I am utterly averse to facetiousness where
firearms are concerned, and----"
"My dear Smithe, I meant nothing, I assure you. I pledge you my word of
honour. Here, load it yourself;" and he handed me the gun.
"There'll be a job for the coroner afore sunset," growled Billy.
"What do you mean, sir?" exclaimed Simpson, rather savagely.
"Mane! There's widdys and lone orphans enough in the counthry,
sir--that's what I mane," and Billy started in advance with the air of
a man who had to do or die.
Mr Simpson was silent for some time, during which he found himself
perpetually involved in his gun, which appeared to give him the
uttermost uneasiness. First, he held it at arm's length as if it was a
bow; then he placed it under his arm, and held on to it with the
tenacity of an octopus; after a little he shifted it again, sloping it
on his shoulder, ever and anon glancing towards the barrels to
ascertain their exact position. He would pause, place the butt against
the ground, and survey the surrounding prospect with the scrutinising
gaze of a cavalry patrol.
"Hush!" he suddenly exclaimed. "We lost something that time; I heard a
bird."
"Nothin', barrin' a crow," observed Billy.
"A plover, sir; it was the cry of a plover," evasively retorted the
other.
"Holy Vargin! do ye hear this? A pluvver! Divvle resave the pluvver
ever was seen in the barony!"
"Silence, Doyle!" I shouted, finding that my retainer's observations
were becoming personal and unpleasant.
"Troth, we'll all be silent enough by-an'-by."
We had been walking for about half an hour, when Mr Simpson suggested
that it might be advisable to separate, he taking one direction, I
taking the other, but both moving in parallel lines. Having joyfully
assented to this proposition, as the careless manner in which he
handled his gun was fraught with the direst consequences, I moved into
an adjacent bog, leaving my guest to blaze away at what I considered a
safe distance. I took Billy with me, both for company and for counsel,
as my guest's assumed ignorance of the fundamental principles of
shooting had somewhat puzzled me.
"It's a quare bisniss intirely, Masther Jim. He knows no more how to
howld a gun nor you do to howld a baby, more betoken ye've two av the
finest childre--God be good to them!--in Europe. I don't like for to
say he's coddin' us, wud his tigers an' elephants an' combusticles,
but, be me song, it luks very like it. I'd like for to see him
shootin', that wud putt an ind to the question."
At this moment, bang! bang! went the two barrels of my guest's gun.
Billy and I ran to the hedge, and peeping through, perceived Simpson
running very fast towards a clump of furze, shouting and gesticulating
violently. I jumped across the fence, and was rapidly approaching him,
when he waved me back.
"Stop! don't come near me! I'm into them. There are quantities of snipe
here."
"Arrah, what is he talkin' about at all at all?" panted Billy. "Snipes!
Cock him up wud snipes! There ain't a snipe----"
Here Simpson, who had been groping amongst the furze, held up to our
astonished gaze _two brace of snipe_.
Billy Doyle seemed completely dumbfounded. "That bangs anything I ever
heerd tell of. Man nor boy ever seen a snipe in that field afore.
Begorra, he's handy enough wud the gun, after all."
I was very much pleased to find that our excursion had borne fruit, and
that my vaunted preserves were not utterly barren.
"That's a good beginning, Simpson," I cried. "Go ahead; you'll get
plenty of birds by-and-by."
"I'll shoot at nothing but snipe," he replied. "Here you, Billy, come
here and load for me."
"Let's look at the birds, av ye plaze, sir," said Billy, who began to
entertain a feeling akin to respect for a man who could bring down his
two brace at a shot. "I'll be bound they're fat an' cosy, arter the
hoighth av fine feedin' on this slob."
"They're in my bag. By-and-by," replied Simpson curtly. "Now, my man,
follow your master, and leave me to myself;" and my guest strode in the
opposite direction.
Bang! bang!
"Be the mortial, he's at thim agin. This is shupayriour," cried my
retainer, hurrying towards the place whence the report proceeded.
Simpson again held up _two brace of snipe_, and again plunged them
into his bag; nor would he gratify the justifiable longings of our
gamekeeper by as much as a peep at them.
"This is capital sport. Why, this place is swarming with snipe," cried
my guest, whilst his gun was being reloaded. "Depend upon it, it's a
mistake to take dogs. The birds smell them. I'll try that bit of bog
now."
"Ye'll have to mind yer futtin'," observed Billy. "It's crukked an'
crass enough in some spots; I'd betther be wid ye."
"Certainly not," said my guest. "I always shoot alone."
"Och, folly yer own wish, sir; only mind yer futtin'."
Mr Simpson disappeared into the hollow in which the bog was situated,
and, as before, bang! bang! we heard the report of both barrels.
"Be jabers, I'm bet intirely. Thim snipes must have been dhruv from the
say, an' have come here unknownst to any wan. Ay, bawl away! Whisht! be
the hokey, he's into the bog!"
A dismal wailing, accompanied by cries for help, arose from out the
bog, where we found poor Simpson almost up to his chin, and
endeavouring to support himself by his elbows.
"Ugh! ugh! lift me out, for heaven's sake! My new clothes--this coat
that I never put on before" (his whaling garment)--"why did I come to
this infernal hole. Ugh! ugh!"
We dragged him up, leaving his patent boots and stockings behind him.
Billy bore him on his back to the house, where he was stripped and
arrayed in evening costume.
From the pockets of his ulster, which it was found necessary to turn
out for drying purposes, Mr William Doyle extracted no less than _six
brace of snipe_. Unfortunately for Mr Simpson the bill was attached
to the leg of one of the birds. They had been purchased at a
poulterer's in Dublin.
* * * * *
Mr Simpson did not remain to dine or to sleep. He pleaded a business
engagement which he had completely overlooked, and left by the 4.50
train.
"Av all th' imposthors! and his tigers an' elephants no less, an' bears
an' algebras! An' goin' for to cod me into believin' there was snipes
growin' in a clover-field, an' thin never to gi' me a shillin'! Pah!
the naygur!" and Billy Doyle's resentment recognised no limits.
It is scarcely necessary to observe that I was _not_ invited to meet
Lord Mulligatawny, Sir Percy Whiffler, and Colonel Owlfinch of Her
Majesty's Guards, and that my wife holds Simpson over me whenever I
hint at the probability of a visit to the metropolis.