“Last drive this next, gentlemen,” said that universal functionary as he surveyed the Colonel’s one Frenchman, and then glancing sadly at the tell-tale pile of empty cartridge cases, added, “You’ll hev to shoot up, Colonel, this time, if you are a-going to win them there gloves for Miss Ida.  Mr. Cossey hev knocked up four brace and a half, and you hev only got a brace.  Look you here, sir,” he went on in a portentous whisper, “keep forrard of them, well forrard, fire ahead, and down they’ll come of themselves like.  You’re a better shot than he is a long way; you could give him ‘birds,’ sir, that you could, and beat him.”

Harold said nothing.  He was sorely tempted to make excuses, as any man would have been, and he might with truth have urged that he was not accustomed to partridge-driving, and that one of the guns was new to him.  But he resisted manfully and said never a word.

George placed the two guns, and then went off to join the beaters.  It was a capital spot for a drive, for on each side were young larch plantations, sloping down towards them like a V, the guns being at the narrow end and level with the points of the plantations, which were at this spot about a hundred and twenty yards apart.  In front was a large stretch of open fields, lying in such a fashion that the birds were bound to fly straight over the guns and between the gap at the end of the V-shaped covers.

They had to wait a long while, for the beat was of considerable extent, and this they did in silence, till presently a couple of single birds appeared coming down the wind like lightning, for a stiffish breeze had sprung up.  One went to the left over Edward Cossey’s head, and he shot it very neatly, but the other, catching sight of Harold’s hat beneath the fence, which was not a high one, swerved and crossed, an almost impossible shot, nearer sixty than fifty yards from him.

“Now,” said Ida, and he fired, and to his joy down came the bird with a thud, bounding full two feet into the air with the force of its impact, being indeed shot through the head.

“That’s better,” said Ida, as she handed him the second gun.

Another moment and a covey came over, high up.  He fired both barrels and got a right and left, and snatching the second gun sent another barrel after them, hitting a third bird, which did not fall.  And then a noble enthusiasm and certainty possessed him, and he knew that he should miss no more.  Nor did he.  With two almost impossible exceptions he dropped every bird that drive.  But his crowning glory, a thing whereof he still often dreams, was yet to come.

He had killed four brace of partridge and fired eleven times, when at last the beaters made their appearance about two hundred yards away at the further end of rather dirty barley stubble.

“I think that is the lot,” he said; “I’m afraid you have lost your gloves, Ida.”

Scarcely were the words out of his mouth when there was a yell of “mark!” and a strong covey of birds appeared, swooping down the wind right on to him.