The countryman is not always the guileless simpleton that he sometimes
looks; nor, as we can show, is the Cockney sportsman. A holiday-making
Londoner was shooting one day in a field beyond the cottage of a
labourer, who came out to watch the sport. Suddenly a cry broke from
him: he leaped into the air; then bellowed to the sportsman, waving a
red handkerchief in signal. Up to the cottage rushed the sportsman,
thinking that at the least the countryman had been stung by a hornet
or bitten by a mad dog. "Look what ye've bin an' done," said the
countryman, advancing. "'Tis a wonder I be alive; look what ye've bin
an' done; look at my door, and look at these here shots." Saying which,
he pointed to his newly painted door (the sportsman saw it was pitted
with such holes as a rusty nail might make). He held out his hand and
showed a good two ounces of shot (the sportsman saw they had never
been fired from a gun). "These here shots," said the countryman, "they
buzzed about me like a swarm of bees: 'tis a wonder I be alive." The
sportsman agreed in the marvel of the escape, adding to its wonder by
pointing out that his shot had been fired at a distance of five hundred
yards from the cottage--and in the opposite direction. "Allow me," he
said, "to buy back these wonderful pellets at a fair market price"--and
he handed the countryman twopence.
* * * * *