96 SHOOTING THE PARTRIDGE 
was a very fine shot, one of the best I ever saw, and 
perfectly wrapped up in it. . Nobody shot over the 
estate but him and his sons, and I verily believe 
that all he knew of Mr. Gladstone was that he had 
once been a shooter and had lost a finger through 
the accidental discharge of the second barrel while 
loading a muzzle-loader. He always promised my 
father that he would send me home if I fired a 
dangerous shot, and he kept his word. Well do I 
recollect the humiliated frame of mind in which I 
loitered home about 3 p.m., having killed nothing my- 
self all day, and had my gun taken away from me for 
nearly shooting Hirst junior. Did I go straight in 
and confess? No, I did not; I crept through the 
park, loafing and lying about out of sight under the 
great trees which Mr. Gladstone and his axe have 
since made so famous, and the incident blew over. 
I never heard any more of it. But it did me a world 
of good, and many a time since when I have seen the 
inevitable duffer plugging at low pheasants, and heard 
the offensive rattle of misdirected shot in the twigs 
about me, have I wished that the shooter were under 
discipline, and that I were old Hirst and could send 
him home. 
Hirst backed himself on one occasion to hit 495 
penny pieces out of 500 thrown up. He won his bet, 
