ON A PARTRIDGE BEAT 15 
of life, and his manner implied that he was quite 
cunning enough for his years. In his youth, he 
said, he had been in the army, and that beneath 
the back of his trousers was evidence of a sabre- 
slash, while it was another wound, he vowed, that 
caused him to speak as if he had a perpetual 
stomach-ache. His gun certainly appeared to have 
been made about the time of the Crimean War. 
The one barrel of the weapon was bound with 
string, though, he assured me, ‘she was as safe as a 
church, and shot turr’ble ’ard if you didn’t ’urry ’er.’ 
On condition that he drew the charge and reloaded 
her in my presence, I one evening volunteered to 
try to shoot the old chap a rabbit—not, as he 
explained, that he was over-fond of rabbits, but 
merely that he ‘didn’t mind the hind leg of one 
now an’ t’an for a change.’ I had an easy crossing 
shot at about five-and-twenty yards, and, by simply 
hauling at the trigger, got ‘her’ off within five 
minutes of the rabbit’s disappearance into shelter. 
Then I realized what a feat it must have been to 
kill seven ‘set-up’ rabbits in succession! But there 
is no telling what application will not accomplish. 
Thus it came to pass that I actually succeeded in 
killing a flying wood-pigeon with the old fellow’s 
gun. It is only fair to myself to say that the 
calculations involved were elaborate and big, the 
chief of which was to begin hauling at the trigger with 
as many fingers as the guard would admit so soon 
