FOR YOUNG SHOOTERS 107 



plentifulness this is the record on which I look 

 back as the evening's shadows close in on the first 

 of February. 



Did I shoot well ? Hum, well ask me another. 

 Did I shoot badly ? No-o-o, I don't think I did ; 

 no, I'm certain I didn't. Still, there was one awful 

 day, when the pheasants seemed to come merely 

 to ' cock (or hen) a snook ' at me, and then sail 

 away unharmed into the distance in spite of my 

 two despairing shots. But of course I knew I 

 shouldn't shoot well that day. I had slept on a 

 feather-bed, which is fatal to accurate shooting, and 

 had eaten devilled chicken for breakfast, which is 

 equally fatal. Besides, I'm quite certain there was 

 something wrong with my cartridges, and there 

 was a yelping retriever who got on my nerves. 

 Curious he didn't get on Dick's nerves, and Dick is 

 as a rule more irritable than I am. Perfect non- 

 sense, Dick trying to make me believe he had filled 

 his cartridge-bag by mistake with my cartridges. 

 He couldn't have done that, because he shot extra- 

 ordinarily well. Yet Dick was never a gratuitous 

 liar. Anyhow, I couldn't hit anything that day. 

 The miserable recollections, however, were almost 

 wiped out two days afterwards. I really flatter 



