DRIVING 133 
fiercely drive it into him much too close with your 
second, 
‘D-——n the hare,’ you mutter aloud as you change 
your gun ; but the men are getting near, you hear the 
whish and rustle of the flags, a few more desultory 
lots come screaming over, and pretty it is, looking 
down the line, to see them drop out as they pass, for 
the performers on either side of you are picked from 
the best in England. A few more ‘singletons’ to 
each gun, all killed but one, at which four barrels are 
fired, and which towers far away back. 
‘ Anything to pick up this side, gentlemen?’ sings 
out Marlowe ; in another minute he and his horse 
come crashing through the gap, the white smocks 
and flags are peeping through unforeseen holes in the 
fence, all the dogs are loose and ranging far and wide, 
the guns and loaders scattered, picking up in all direc- 
tions, and the drive of the season is over. 
Seventy-five brace in the single drive, of which 
forty birds you can honestly claim, having laid their 
corpses in a fair row ere they are hurled by the 
old pensioner into his sack, and you find yourself 
shouted, whistled, nay, sworn at, to get on to the 
next drive. 
Glad are you in your heart, for that was a good 
score, well and truly made. You will not always be in 
