SOME SMOKING-ROOM YARNS 165 



A few seasons ago I formed one of a party of eleven 

 " guns " on a certain well-stocked partridge manor in 

 East Anglia. Among my fellow guests was an officer 

 of one of the Lancer regiments, and also a rotund little 

 man well known in the leather world. 



The gallant soldier — he is a splendid shot — shot 

 brilhantly throughout the morning, while the leather 

 magnate proved a far better friend to his cartridge 

 maker than enemy to the " httle brown birds." Briefly, 

 his contribution to the bag, when a halt was called for 

 lunch, consisted of one very small leveret. 



Like many other bad shots, the little man anathema- 

 tised his gun, ammunition, the sun (which was always in 

 his eyes just as he was getting on to his bird, don't you 

 know !), everything, indeed, barring his own lack of 

 skill. Needless to add, Mr. Leather came in for his full 

 quota of good-natured chaff during luncheon. He took 

 his roasting somewhat badly, however, and well primed 

 with " Dry Monopole," and smarting under what he 

 erroneously imagined to be a direct insult from the Lancer, 

 he offered to bet the latter a level " tenner " that his 

 (Mr. Leather's) " bag " would be the heavier of the two 

 at the close of the afternoon's sport. Not caring to 

 take undue advantage of " crooked powder," and know- 

 ing full well that in the usual course of events his 

 challenger had not the ghost of a chance of winning the 

 bet, the Captain very properly refused to accept the 

 wager. At length, however, upon Mr. Leather suggesting 

 that he funked the match, he condescended to take up 

 the gauntlet. 



Shooting was resumed, the soldier dropped bird after 

 bird as usual, while Mr. Leather blazed away without 



