PARTRIDGE SHOOTING. 193 



the hawk was shot, with his eye. There they 

 were, sure enough, having crept to the very 

 bottom of the brush-pile through the dead twigs 

 and branches. We had nine successive shots 

 before the dogs stirred, when T. called them off, 

 declaring that he would not shoot at another 

 bird. In fact, you could hear them squeak and 

 scratch their way out at every kick which we 

 gave the pile when, in the nick of time, down 

 came a surly countryman, with a hound-cur and 

 a friend at his heels, and ordered us off. The 

 man was at first decidedly wolfish, and half in- 

 clined to create a row, but the suavity of T. and 

 the inimitable manner in which he weathered 

 upon him as soon as he found out his name, 

 claiming relationship by Adam's side, I sup- 

 pose and introducing his liquor-flask into the 

 discussion in his fine, off-hand way, put the man 

 in decent humor at last. The other fellow, how- 

 ever, fought shy. He was a shrewd, lantern- 

 jawed, cat-eyed, close-fisted clodhopper; setting 

 his cunning avaricious orbs on T.'s face, for a 

 time he listened with an occasional smirk, to his 

 rigmarole, whittling a stick the while, and turn- 

 ing up his nose at the dogs. I was inclined to 

 let him alone, thinking that he was too much for 

 me, when, after moistening his throat with such 



