BRITISH SPORT PAST AND PRESENT 



turnips, and with a sharp whirring rattle, Uke the flutter of a 

 moth's wing in a cardboard box, tliree birds are over the fence 

 on your left, and almost on you before you see them. Up and 

 round you swing, killing one stone dead, but the second was 

 too far, and they are gone. Involuntarily you look at your 

 neighbour, a man there is no deceiving, for you know you were 

 caught napping, and ought to have killed one of those in front 

 of you, and the little half-sarcastic glance out of the corner of 

 his right eye, though he never moves his head, tells you he 

 saw it all. 



' " Over, gentlemen — over the right ! " is now the cry, and 

 with a whirr that is almost a roar, a big lot breaks all over the 

 fence to your right and in front. Now thoroughly awake, you 

 kill three neatly, quickly followed by a smart right and left^ 

 one in front and one behind — at a brace that come straight at 

 you, immediately followed by misses with both barrels at one 

 hanging along the fence and inclined to go back over the 

 beaters. You strike him underneath with the second, he 

 winces, rises a little, and just as he seems to turn is crumpled 

 up dead by the professor on your left, a beautiful long cross 

 shot, and you are fain to touch your hat and acknowledge a 

 clean wipe. But now they come thick, and being just angry 

 enough, you settle into form ; for though your left arm feels 

 like iron, and your grip on the fore-end like a vice, yet your 

 actions are getting the looseness and your style the freedom 

 that good form, confidence, and lots of shooting inspire, and 

 you begin to " play the hose upon them " properly. Here 

 and there a miss, sometimes two running, generally poking 

 shots at birds which have passed close by while you were 

 changing guns, and which somehow baffle you against the 

 rising stubble behind. Why, you don't know, but you miss 

 three or four in the same place and in the same way, though 

 otherwise you are " all right." 



' A great big lot, three or four coveys packed together, 

 pours out at the upper end over the left hand, and, swinging 

 round in the wind, heads straight down the line of guns. 



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