FOR YOUNG SHOOTERS 47 



of me and pierced my host's youngest brother a 

 plump, short-coated Eton boy, who was for some 

 reason standing with his back to me ten yards in 

 my rear in a part of his person sacred as a rule 

 plagoso Orbilio. The shrieks of the stricken youth, 

 I told Dubson, still sounded horribly in my ears. 

 It took the country doctor an hour to extract the 

 pellets an operation which the boy endured with 

 great fortitude, merely observing that he hoped 

 his rowing would not be spoiled for good, as he 

 should bar awfully having to turn himself into a 

 dry-bob. This story, with all its harrowing details, 

 did I duly hammer into the open-mouthed Dubson, 

 who merely remarked that ' it was a rum go, but 

 you can never tell where a ricochet will go/ and 

 was beginning upon me with a brand new ricochet 

 anecdote of his own, when I hurriedly departed. 



Wherefore, my gay young shooters, you who 

 suck wisdom and conversational ability from 

 these pages, it is borne in upon me that for 

 your benefit I must treat of the smoking-room 

 in its connection with shooting parties. Thus, 

 perhaps, you may learn not so much what 

 you ought to say, as what you ought not to say, 

 and your discretion shall be the admiration of a 



