I am not a sporting man--I never possessed either a dog or a gun--I
never fired a shot in my life, and the points of a canine quadruped are
as unknown to me as those of the sea-serpent. The 12th of August is a
mystery, and the 1st of September a sealed book. I have been regarded
with well-merited contempt at the club by asking for grouse in the
month of June, and for woodcock in September. I think it is just as
well to mention these matters, lest it should be supposed that I desire
to sail under false colours. I am acquainted with several men who
shoot, and also with some who have shooting to give away. The former
very frequently invite me to join their parties at the moors,
turnip-fields, and woods; the latter press their shooting on me,
especially when I decline on the grounds of disinclination and
incapacity.
"I wish I had your chances, Brown," howls poor little Binks, who can
bring down any known bird at any given distance. "You're always getting
invitations because you _can't_ shoot; and I cannot get one because I
_can_. It's too bad, by George!--it's too bad!"
One lovely morning in the month of September I was sauntering along the
shady side of Sackville Street, Dublin, when a gentleman, encased in a
coat of a resounding pattern, all over pockets, and whose
knickerbockers seemed especially constructed to meet the requirements
of the coat, suddenly burst upon, and clutched me.
"The very man I wanted," he exclaimed. "I've been hunting you the way
O'Mulligan's pup hunted the fourpenny bit through the bonfire."
"What can I do for you, Mr Podgers?" I asked.
"I want a day's shooting at O'Rooney's of Ballybawn," responded
Podgers.
Now, I was not intimate with Mr O'Rooney. We had met at the club; but
as he was a smoking man, and as I, after a prolonged and terrific
combat with a very mild cigar (what must the strong ones be!), had
bidden a long farewell to the Indian weed, it is scarcely necessary to
mention that, although Mr O'Rooney and myself were very frequently
beneath the same roof, we very seldom encountered one another, save in
a casual sort of way.
"I assure you, Mr Podgers, that I----"
"Pshaw! that's all gammon," he burst in anticipatingly. "You can do it
if you like. Sure we won't kill _all_ the game. And I have the
loveliest dog that ever stood in front of a bird. I want to get a
chance of showing him off. He'll do you credit."
I was anxious to oblige Podgers. He had stood by me in a police-court
case once upon a time, and proved an _alibi_ such as must have met
the approval even of the immortal Mr Weller himself; so I resolved upon
soliciting the required permission, and informed Podgers that I would
acquaint him with the result of my application.
"That's a decent fellow. Come back to my house with me now, and I'll
give you a drop of John Jameson that will make your hair curl."
Declining to have my hair curled through the instrumentality of Mr
Jameson's unrivalled whisky, I wended my way towards the club, and, as
luck would have it, encountered O'Rooney lounging on the steps enjoying
a cigar.
After the conventional greetings, I said, "By the way, you have some
capital partridge shooting at Ballybawn."
"Oh, pretty good," was the reply, in that self-satisfied, complacent
tone in which a crack billiard-player refers to the spot-stroke, or a
rifleman to his score when competing for the Queen's Prize.
"I'm no shot myself--I never fired a gun in my life; but there's a
particular friend of mine who is most anxious to have _one_ day's
shooting at Ballybawn. Do you think you could manage to let him have
it?"