MY FIRST SHOOT 29 
so that, no matter how I shifted my position, the 
crisis came just where I was. I tried to kill time 
by sleep, but it was a wretched business. There 
was no forgetting that I was hungry, damp (to say 
the least of it), and cold—stiff and sleepless with 
cold. 1 would have gone home had I not suspected 
that shots might be fired at drowsy coveys making 
their way to breakfast in the grey light of dawn. 
Once dawn had come, it would not be long before 
farm-hands would be stirring about the fields, and 
poaching would be unnecessarily risky. 
At last, hungry, cold, and weary of watching, but 
with a sense of moral triumph and self-conquest, I 
started for home. I must confess that during that 
weary trudge I felt that nothing but a guarantee of 
an exceptional First, glorious both in birds and 
weather, would have induced me to relish a prospect 
of spending the rest of the day shooting. However, 
a wash, dry clothes, and breakfast worked wonders. 
And long before the modern hour for starting 
shooting my keenness was normal, and I was off 
again to my partridge fields. The night that was 
past I thought of merely as a dream. 
The shooting on all sides beyond the boundary 
was let, and it was not long before I heard pop, 
pop-pop, pop—pop—pop, each shot a note of 
music, each volley a delicious chord. In all direc- 
tions beyond my marches IJ heard parties saluting 
sweet September. I thought they must be getting 
