FLAPPER SHOOTING 



'WAS a blazingly hot 

 August afternoon, and I 

 was "lazing" at the open 

 window, watching the 

 heat-rays as they danced 

 over the sun-scorched 

 verdure of the almost 

 deserted square ; listen- 

 ing to the chattering of 

 grimy sparrows ; and 

 longing for the heather 

 and hills of my native 

 country, when a telegram from my old friend Captain 



N was handed to me, which ran as follows : — " Jack 



and self are going to shoot the ' flappers ' on E Island 



on Wednesday next. Will you join us ? Wire." 



A fast train from Liverpool Street carried me to the 



" one hoss " little railway station of S , where I 



found N and his son. Jack — a fine specimen of the 



English public school boy — awaiting my advent in a 

 roomy and well-laden shooting-waggon. Greetings ex- 

 changed and the toast " Plenty of fowl, and may they fly 

 well," having been drunk over a glass of tepid soda and 

 brandy (why is it that one cannot get an iced drink at the 



average English railway buffet ?), and the old Irish mare 



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