JUNE 2, 1906.] 
FOREST AND STREAM. 

and had a reminiscence to give us; but was 
promptly checked, and had to apologize. 
“T began to read all the books on sport which 
I could get hold of,’ said the little man. 
“You've all of you read ‘Daniel’?”’ No one 
seemed ready to say that he had not read 
“Daniel.” Two men had, and most of the rest 
thought they might have done so, but would not 
swear to it. One said he was sure he had been 
through the whole of the Old Testament when 
a boy, but he was hanged if he could recollect 
anything sporting, except the lions. ‘And 
Hawker? You've all read Hawker?” Three of 
us had read Hawker. The others murmured, 
“Oh! yes, Hawker!” “Good man, Hawker!” and 
so forth, or were silent. ‘‘Then I read Hutchin- 
son,” the enthusiast told us, “and went on to the 
Badminton volumes, and so on, until I was well 
up in the theory of the thing, and felt I only 
needed experience. Last year, when I happened 
to drop into a little m-money, I decided that I 
could afford some s-shooting in a small way. 
It was late in the year, and I thought I would 
get experience cheapest at wildfowl; so I en- 
gaged r-rooms at an hotel which advertised 
rough s-shooting.’”’ He paused, shook his head, 
and, lighting a cigarette, blew a ring and watched 
it travel slowly across the room. 
“There’s a lot of chance about those hotel 
shootings,” said a man by the fire, encouragingly, 
as our entertainer seemed lost in thought. “Did 
it come up to the advertisement?” “Ye-es; I 
suppose to,” the little man allowed, dubiously. 
“You see, they advertised it as ‘rough,’ and so 
it was—very. They said I was too early for the 
w-woodcock, and too late for the g-grouse; but 
g-grouse need heather generally, don’t they? 
Though I know what the Encyclopedia of Sport 
says about Rochdal:.” ‘‘Heavens! The man’s 
a pocket encyclopedia himself,’ muttered B. 
under his breath. 
_ “No rabbits?” asked the man by the fire. 
“VYe-es,’ the little man admitted “there were 
some rabbits. I suppose there are still.” He 
paused and considered, and then turned to me, 
“Do you know, I find rabbits awfully short,” he 
said, confidentially. “Six inches too short, I 
believe,” some one said. ‘More, I think,’ he 
decided, after further consideration. “After sh- 
shooting at a few, I knew what those s-scientific 
Johnnies mean by protective coloration. If the 
tails weren’t white, perhaps I wouldn’t always 
fire at them. I know a story about a r-r-rabbit 
—but I said I’d tell you about my s-snipe.” We 
assured him that we should like, above all things, 
to hear of the rabbit another time, and he 
resumed his story. 
“It was on the third day that I was out. I 
had missed two r-rabbits, and I came to a soft 
bit of ground with a s-spring. I said to myself, 
‘This is just a beautiful place for a.s-snipe,’ and 
stopped to put in some number eight cartridges 
instead of fives. Do you think eights the best 
size for s-snipe?”’ Most of us agreed that eights 
were as good as any, if one was ready to lose the 
chance of a stray duck, and the little man seemed 
much pleased. ‘Theoretically I knew where s- 
snipe should be,’ he said. “Only a moment 
later one rose from under my feet.” “And you 
dropped him? Hooray!” “N-no. I d-dropped 
my gun,” apologetically. “The bird sh-shrieked 
so, and made me jump. Fortunately, I had left 
the catch of my single trigger at safe. Do you 
believe in s-single triggers?” 
One man yawned. Another solemnly declared 
that his favorite gun for snipe was an 8-bore 
muzzle-loading Joe Manton. The little man 
apologized gently to the first for not catching 
his remark, and, thanking the second, said his 
experience was very interesting, and stopped to 
make a note of it. 
“IT knew I might find that s-snipe there again,” 
he went on, particularly as I had not fired at 
him. So I went home and read the subject up. 
Badminton says they lie well after a clear moon- 
light night. I looked out three or four times that 
night, and saw the moon was nearly full and the 
sky clear. I therefore went for that s-snipe just 
after breakfast, and was well paid for my 
trouble.” 
“Killed him that time?’ I suggested, en- 
couragingly. “N-no; but I got a b-beautiful 
shot with b-both barrels—only they went off 
871 

together. I think the explosion made that gun 
throw high.” 
The man who had shot nineteen snipe with 
eighteen cartridges choked at this point over 
his whiskey and soda, and several of us found 
his convulsions so humorous that we could not 
help joining him. At least, some of us elabor- 
ately explained our mirth in that way. But the 
little man was mildly concerned, and thumped 
our friend on the back to the accompaniment of 
soft words of apology for the liberty taken with 
a stranger. The sufferer afterward told us that 
the words were much softer than the thumps. 
“That evening,’ the stranger continued, “I 
went again. But I approached the p-place down 
wind, which is sometimes advocated in Scolo- 
paxiana and other authorities, and my da-das- 
tardly setter p-put him up out of range.” 
“Most setters are best in the kennels, if 
you're after snipe,’ said the man by the fire. 
“IT left him there next day and took a r-re- 
triever,” said the little man. 
“Ande thenr’.. “Theseprute of a bird 
took us both by surprise... I never fired 
at all.” About this time the means by 
which the ultimate end of the snipe would be 
reached became of absorbing interest to us all, 
including apparently, Tim, the waiter, who still, 
I saw, hovered in the background, grinning. “I 
once met a man, before I s-shot snipe,” said our 
destroyer of Scolopax, gravely, ‘“‘who told me he 
never took out a dog for them. I then tried 
that, but after treading twice, as you may Say, 
on the b-beast of a b-bird, I swore I’d rather 
trample on a live wire—it startled me so. But 
at last I thought of a better way.” 
A better way! Even the least interested leant 
forward to hear how such a sorry Nimrod ar- 
rived at a better way. 
“Yes. I lay out for it. The thought was quite 
original, I believe.” <A little hum of laughter 
and applause ran through the smoking-room, 
and the small sportsman was obviously pleased. 
“T think the use of what little b-brains one may 
have,’ he said modestly, “must always make 
a difference in the b-bag some time. The s-soft 
patch was s-so small that the s-snipe couldn’t 
possibly live on it. He must have fed some- 
where else in the night. I found a sheltered c- 
corner. thirty yards away—that being, I believe, 
about the distance at which my gun gives the 
best p-pattern and p-penetration. I went’ there 
in the dark, with a r-rug and my r-retriever, and 
I waited until the dawn. Perhaps,” he added, 
turning shyly to the Anglo-Indian, “‘some of you 
have lain out all night for game?” And the man 
apparently addressed grinned broadly, and said 
that he had—for tigers and for thugs. “Ah! 
they’re bigger, and easier to hit than s-snipe— 
aren't they?” asked the little man, innocently. 
And the yell of laughter which made our glasses 
jingle on the table seemed to startle him, for he 
took a long swig at his grog before he went on, 
which he did at last without waiting for any 
reply to his last question. 
“D-dawn is a beautiful s-sight,” he told us, 
with gentle enthusiasm, “beautiful even when 
you are soaked with d-dew. No, sir, I do not 
mean Mountain Dew, although I took a little 
of that with me—to prevent chill. Dawn is 
beautiful, I say, and I enjoyed it. But my qu- 
quarry, when he came, made it superb. I saw 
him coming quietly, high over the course of a 
little stream. He made a half circle, came right 
over my head, and then dropped like a stone on 
his favorite r-resting place.” 
There was a loud cheer, possibly of relief, and 
it seemed to surprise our hero. I asked, then, 
whether the snipe had dropped to the first barrel 
—and his surprise was obviously increased. 
“F-first barrel?” he ejaculated. “Why, I hadn’t 
fired yet! I lost sight of him directly he 
reached the ground, but I came prepared for 
that. I had a f-field-glass with me, and I used 
it carefully, remembering what I had read in a 
book on stalking and looking through my 
shelter, not over it. It was a quarter of an hour 
before I could make him out, but at last I saw 
him. He lay flat, head to wind, behind a t-tus- 
sock of g-grass. Then I was almost sure that I 
had him—if I kept cool. I hesitated for a 
moment which. b-barrel to use, but decided on 
my left, because it was slightly choked. I took 
a nip of whiskey, for I confess I was s-shivering. 
Then I aimed carefully—and fired. I was ready 
with my right b-barrel if the bird should rise; 
but presently, as nothing happened, I put down 
my g-gun and took my g-glass again. That 
S-snipe was there still, but a feather floated 
against the tuft of g-grass, and I knew that I 
had s-scored at last.” 
The little man stopped, beamed upon us cheer- 
fully through his single eyeglass, and then re- 
freshed’himself from his tumbler, while from a 
shadowed corner of the room came the sound of 
a hollow voice. 
“Shot it sitting!” said the voice. ‘Yes,” said 
the little man, turning in the voice’s direction, 
with an air of modest pride; “I believe the feat 
is almost unique.” “Quite, I should think,” 
said some one else dryly. “Did you have it 
stuffed?” And the little man forthwith became a 
picture of embarrassment. “The fact is,’ he 
stammered ingenuously, “I hadn’t had my d-dog 
fed that morning. He got the b-bird first, and 
—kept it!” 
There was a profound silence for a while, and 
then the only unpopular member of our party 
yawned, and said it was a long tale. One or 
two of us scowled at him, but the little man 
seemed merely puzzled. “One calls pheasants 
longtails, doesn’t one?” he asked. ‘The s-snipe’s 
bill is much longer than its tail, isn’t it? But that 
reminds me’”—and, calling gently to Tim, he 
asked that his account should be made up over 
night, as he wished to start early the next morn- 
ing. Then he wished us all good-night and good 
sport, hoped that he hadn’t b-bored us, and that 
we might meet again some day, and then slipped 
auietly out of the room. 
** * x * * * * 
“Well,” said the Anglo-Indian, still staring 
at the door, which had softly closed behind the 
retreating sportsman, ‘‘may all the Irish saints 
protect the men who shoot with that chap to- 
morrow! The birds will be able to take care of 
themselves, I fancy—unless they refuse to rise.” 
Then, as Tim came forward, with a certain air 
of suppressed delight, to pick up sundry empty 
glasses, “Tim, where does that gentleman shoot 
to-morrow?” 
_ “Ballymoy; yer honner, an’ a foine shutin’ it 
is—an’ a fine place for shnipes,’”’ he added. 
“And a fine time those snipe will have to- 
morrow, said the Anglo-Indian, sotto voce, to 
me. “Oh! the chances that come to men who 
can’t use ’em properly. I’ve heard of Bally- 
moy before now.” ; 
“Who is the gentleman, Tim?” I asked. 
“°Tis by the name of O’Brian he goes, sorr,” 
said Tim, politely, still collecting tumblers, and 
taking orders in a casual sort of way. 
“Let me see,” I said, considering. “Don’t I 
recollect, in the Field, a report of big bags of 
snipe and woodcock made at Ballymoy last year? 
It’s Sir Brian O’Brian’s place, I think. Is Mr. 
O’Brian a relative?” “Is it one of the family, 
you mean? Not the laste in the world.” He 
dropped a tumbler ruthlessly in the very center 
of the room, as if to emphasize his disclaimer. 
“°Tis only Sir Brian himself. And faith, gentle- 
men, if it’s the shnipes, then, that’s wanted, 
there’s no claner shot at the shnipes than Sir 
Brian himself, to me knowledge, born an’ bred 
this side o’ the Irish Channel, that is,’ he added, 
with an ingratiating smile which included all 
present. d 
“Had on toast,” said my friend B., laconically. 
“It’s good they are on toast, too,” Tim agreed 
rather irrelevantly. “I’ve heard him tell that 
same story,” he added, still perhaps withqut any 
relevancy, “when big bags was talked of’’— and 
here, as he edged toward the door with his tray 
of glasses, he looked sideways at the Anglo- 
Indian. “Stammers rather badly, too,” said the 
man who had spoken of a long tale, as though 
stammering affected the situation. But Tim, 
then passing triumphantly through the door- 
way, heard, and turned upon him. “’Tisn’t with 
his gun that he shtammers—belave you that!” 
he said, and straightway vanished. 
A few days later, when a humorous apology 
and a cordial invitation to shoot the Ballymoy 
coverts came for all of us, we found, as Tim had 
said, that with his gun Sir Brian did not 
stammer, Riccardo STEPHENS. 
