MY FIRST SHOOT 29 



so that, no matter how I shifted my position, the 

 crisis came just where I was. I tried to kill time 

 by sleep, but it was a wretched business. There 

 was no forgetting that I was hungry, damp (to say 

 the least of it), and cold stiff and sleepless with 

 cold. I would have gone home had I not suspected 

 that shots might be fired at drowsy coveys making 

 their way to breakfast in the grey light of dawn. 

 Once dawn had come, it would not be long before 

 farm-hands would be stirring about the fields, and 

 poaching would be unnecessarily risky. 



At last, hungry, cold, and weary of watching, but 

 with a sense of moral triumph and self-conquest, I 

 started for home. I must confess that during that 

 weary trudge I felt that nothing but a guarantee of 

 an exceptional First, glorious both in birds and 

 weather, would have induced me to relish a prospect 

 of spending the rest of the day shooting. However, 

 a wash, dry clothes, and breakfast worked wonders. 

 And long before the modern hour for starting 

 shooting my keenness was normal, and I was off 

 again to my partridge fields. The night that was 

 past I thought of merely as a dream. 



The shooting on all sides beyond the boundary 

 was let, and it was not long before I heard pop, 

 pop-pop, pop pop pop, each shot a note of 

 music, each volley a delicious chord. In all direc- 

 tions beyond my marches I heard parties saluting 

 sweet September. I thought they must be getting 



