NORFOLK PARTRIDGES. 99 



To my left, the Indian financial man, our Norfolk host, and in charge 

 of the shoot; the others all to his left. Just a little to the right of my 

 front in the hedge was a good sized beech tree, but I could not help 

 that. I had been stationed there, could not leave and it was beyond my 

 power to move the tree. 



My loader stood close up to my left rear. His instructions were to 

 keep an automatic in his hand loaded, with the safety off, and the 

 muzzle of the gun pointed up, if I reached back at any time my hand 

 would be expected to hold a gun to be grasped by his disengaged hand, 

 while he reached me forward the loaded one at the same time. 



Now we could see the beaters moving toward us, and some of them 

 were making noises by calling out or beating upon the ground with 

 their sticks. Somewhere to the left of the line I heard "Mark Front !" 

 and then bang-bang-bang-bang ! I caught a glimpse of brown hurtling 

 shapes, saw two of them tumbling and I was conscious that I had seen 

 my first driven covey of partridges over the guns. 



I wondered if I could hit one bird out of such a lot even from my 

 secure stand and with my two automatics. I was soon to find out, 

 for the low voice of my loader warned me "here they come, for you, 

 sir, in front!" I just had time to sense the movement of what looked 

 like very high velocity, slightly elongated, cannon balls sizzling by to 

 my left front. 



To save my life I could not find one of the birds in front of me. 

 I had to swing 'round as they passed to my rear, then I did get two 

 shots off, one of them from a satisfactory holding and the other a 

 wild smash at a bird disappearing over a little rise of ground. The 

 first shell had killed, the second had missed. 



My suspicion that shooting driven partridges was not a royal road to 

 murder grew stronger from this moment. A little later another covey 

 came by. This time I got in three shots, but only one bird stayed 

 behind. Evidence was accumulating that the gentleman sportsman of 

 America who walks birds up and kills them over his dogs, consciously 

 superior to his English cousin's brutal hoggishness, has perhaps slightly 

 misjudged the case. 



The guns were crashing down the line, but I had my own troubles. 

 At the end of the drive or when the beaters had come down to the 

 hedge in front of us, I had killed four birds and wounded a fifth 



