THE BUFFED GROUSE 39 



a gun-muzzle below him. Well, better luck 

 next time, let us hope. ' ' 



Fifty yards farther on, the same careful 

 drawing to a final "stagey" pose. Whir-r-r-r! 

 and a big cock partridge dashes up into the shel- 

 ter of the birches above us. Bang! "Fetch 

 him, good boy! That's better. That's" In 

 the act of holding the bird to his master's hand 

 the dog has wheeled and pointed, carefully put- 

 ting down his trophy and moving in a step or 

 two. The monologue flags, then ceases. Eight 

 at the dog's side I wait, then give a low chirrup 

 for him to go on. This one I must have and 

 things look most promising. Whir-r-r-r! 

 Bang! "What!" Bang! and at the second 

 shot the bird tumbles in a cloud of feathers, a 

 long forty yards away, close to the thick woods 

 on the hilltop. Together, dog and I, we scram- 

 ble through the briars to the summit, the 

 pointer just a bit in front. He pulls up short 

 and points. "All right, old man. Yes, it was 

 just here he fell. Fetch! No? Well, I can 

 pick him up myself," and so I do er not! 

 With a thunderous roar of hurrying wings the 

 bird flushes under foot, rocketing into the tree 



