Part 20 (1/2)
”Ay! ay! in the bog bottom!”
”How many?”
”Twenty-three!”
”Then we'll have sport, by Jove!” and, as he spoke, they entered a wide rushy pasture, across which, at some two or three hundred yards, A--- and fat Tom were seen advancing toward them. They had not made three steps before both dogs stood stiff as stones in the short gra.s.s, where there was not a particle of covert.
”Why, what the deuce is this, Harry?”
”Devil a know know I,” responded he; ”but step up to the red dog, Frank --I'll go to the other--they've got game, and no mistake!”
”Skeap--ske-eap!” up sprang a couple of English snipe before Shot's nose, and Harry cut them down, a splendid double shot, before they had flown twenty yards, just as Frank dropped the one which rose to him at the same moment. At the sound of the guns a dozen more rose hard by, and fluttering on in rapid zig-zags, dropped once again within a hundred yards--the meadow was alive with them.
”Did you ever see snipe here before, Tom? asked Harry, as he loaded.
”Never in all my life--but it's full now--load up! load up! for heaven's sake!”
”No hurry, Tom! Tom--steady! the birds are tame and lie like stones. We can get thirty or forty here, I know, if you'll be steady only--but if we go in with these four dogs, we shall lose all. Here comes Tim with the couples, and we'll take up all but two!”
”That's right,” said A---; ”take up Grouse and Tom's dog, for they won't hunt with yours--and yours are the steadiest, and fetch--that's it, Tim, couple them, and carry them away. What have you killed, Archer?” he added, while his injunctions were complied with.
”One woodc.o.c.k and a brace of ruffed grouse! and Frank has marked down three-and-twenty quail into that rushy bottom yonder, where we can get every bird of them. We are going to have great sport to-day!”
”I think so. Tom and I each killed a double shot out of that bevy!”
”That was well! Now, then, walk slowly and far apart--we must beat this three or four times, at least--the dogs will get them up!”
It was not a moment before the first bird rose, but it was quite two hours, and all the dinner horns had long blown for noon, before the last was bagged--the four guns having scored, in that one meadow, forty-nine English snipe--fifteen for Harry Archer--thirteen for Tom Draw--twelve for the Commodore, and only nine for Forester, who never killed snipe quite so well as he did c.o.c.k or quail.
”And now, boys,” exclaimed Tom, as he flung his huge carcase on the ground, with a thud that shook it many a rod around--”there's a cold roast fowl, and some nice salt pork and crackers, in that 'ar game bag-- and I'm a whale now, I tell you, for a drink!”
”Which will you take to drink, Tom?” inquired Forester, very gravely-- ”fowl, pork, or crackers? Here they are, all of them! I prefer whiskey and water, myself!” qualifying, as he spoke, a moderate cup with some of the ice-cold water which welled out in a crystal stream from a small basin under the wreathed roots of the sycamore which overshadowed them.
”None of your nonsense, Forester--hand us the liquor, lad--I'm dry, I tell you!”
”I wish you'd tell me something I don't know, then, if you feel communicative; for I know that you're dry--now and always! Well! don't be mad, old fellow, here's the bottle--don't empty it--that's all!”
”Well! now I've drinked,” said Tom, after a vast potation, ”now I've drinked good--we'll have a bite and rest awhile, and smoke a pipe; and then we'll use them quail, and we'll have time to pick up twenty c.o.c.k in h.e.l.l-hole arterwards, and that won't be a slow day's work, I reckon.”
THE QUAIL
”Certainly this is a very lovely country,” exclaimed the Commodore suddenly, as he gazed with a quiet eye, puffing his cigar the while, over the beautiful vale, with the clear expanse of Wickham's Pond in the middle foreground, and the wild h.o.a.ry mountains framing the rich landscape in the distance.
”Truly, you may say that,” replied Harry; ”I have traveled over a large part of the world, and for its own peculiar style of loveliness, I must say that I never have seen any thing to match with the vale of Warwick.
I would give much, very much, to own a few acres, and a snug cottage here, in which I might pa.s.s the rest of my days, far aloof from the Fumum et opes strepitumque Romae.”
”Then, why the h--l don't you own a few acres?” put in ancient Tom; ”I'd be right glad to know, and gladder yit to have you up here, Archer.”
”I would indeed, Tom,” answered Harry; ”I'm not joking at all; but there are never any small places to be bought hereabout; and, as for large ones, your land is so confounded good, that a fellow must be a nabob to think of buying.”
”Well, how would Jem Burt's place suit you, Archer?” asked the fat man.