130 SHOOTING THE PARTRIDGE 



at the opera, or of the little lock of chestnut hair, 

 which even she does not know is lying now in your 

 pocket, so near so much too near your heart ? 

 'Non, je mourrais, mais je veux la revoir,' sings in 

 your ears the glorious voice of Jean de Reszke". Again 

 your thoughts fly off ; to the tropical marsh and the 

 snorting rush of the wounded rhino through the 

 reeds ; to your shares in the new drifts of Mashona- 

 land, and their possible value ; to the horse that 

 failed by a short head to land the ' 1,000 to 30, 

 twice ' that might have saved you ; to the dire con- 

 fusion following, and your flight by reason of this to 

 Afric's coral strand ; to the cares and complications, 

 the duns and dilemmas of London life. And as these 

 almost bring you hack to consciousness, a fresher 

 gust of breeze sweeps down the fence, and ' Hold 

 up those birds there, on the left ; hold 'em up, hold 

 'em up ! ' The clear voice of Marlowe, prince of 

 partridge-drivers, ringing out from the down-wind 

 side, the crack of his whip, and the rattle of his 

 horse's feet tell you that he is already round and into 

 the turnips, and with a sharp whirring rattle, like the 

 flutter of a moth's wings in a cardboard box, three 

 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, 



