DRIVING 131 
and they are gone. Involuntarily you look at your 
neighbour, a man there is no deceiving, for you know 
you were caught napping, and ought to have killed 
one of those in front of you, and the little half- 
sarcastic glance out of the corer of his right eye, 
though he never moves his head, tells you he saw it 
all. ‘Over, gentlemen—over the right !’ is now the 
cry, and with a whirr that is almost a roar a big lot 
breaks all over the fence to your right and in front. 
Now thoroughly awake, you kill three neatly, quickly 
followed by a smart right and left—one in front and 
one behind—at a brace that come straight at you, 
immediately followed by misses with both barrels at 
one hanging along the fence and inclined to go back 
over the beaters. You strike him underneath with 
the second, he winces, rises a little, and just as he 
seems to turn is crumpled up dead by the professor 
on your left, a beautiful long cross shot, and you are 
fain to touch your hat and acknowledge a clean wipe. 
But now they come thick, and being just angry 
enough, you settle into form; for though your left 
arm feels like iron, and your grip on the fore-end like 
a vice, yet your actions are getting the looseness and 
your style the freedom that good form, confidence, 
and lots of shooting inspire, and you begin to ‘ play 
the hose upon them’ properly. Here and there a 
K2 
