72 AN OLD SPORTSMAN. 



prepared for a razzia into a long string of 

 bogs, which we agreed to divide between us. 

 My uncle was to take Jack Sullivan and one 

 side of it with Flirt ; I was to take the other 

 with Don, Shot, and Tim Callaghan, who had 

 now attached himself to us for the remainder of 

 our expedition. At this point we all observe 

 a deep silence, for, strange enough, snipe or 

 even wild duck will not start from a bog at 

 the sound of a gun as readily as they will 

 either at the sound of a voice, the noise of the 

 feet sinking in the slush, or the whutter made 

 by their own wings. Uncle Joe and I both 

 draw our charges (we are unfashionable enough 

 to shoot with muzzle-loaders), and substitute 

 number eight for number six ; and then Joe 

 takes the left circuit, while I take the right. 

 The place is hot with scent, and the dogs are 

 cowering and stealing prettily about us. Don 

 first stops, and as we are at present close to 

 each, is backed by the others. A jack skirls 

 like a dark butterfly in a breeze, waggling in a 

 most bewildering style, but Joe waits until his 

 flight has attained his climacteric, and while 

 the jack is poised for one second, he leaves his 



