Last of all, Mr. Raymond comes slowly down the staircase, followed by his son-in-law that is to be.  Forrester and I have been ready long ago, so we start.

Bruce did shoot, certainly, if discharging his gun on the slightest provocation constituted the fact; but he shot curiously ill.  Indeed, he might have formed a pendant to that humane sportsman who, having taken to rural sports sero sed serio, said, in extreme old age, “that it was a satisfaction to him to reflect that he could not charge himself with having been, wittingly, the death of more than a dozen of his fellow-creatures.”

It was a problem whereon Mallett ruminated gravely long afterward—­“Wherever Mr. Bruce’s shot do go to?” He could not conceive so much lead being dispersed in the atmosphere without a more adequate result.  This want of dexterity, too, was thrown into strong relief that day; for all the other men, putting myself out of the question, were rare masters of the art.

Livingstone headed the list, though Fallowfield ran him hard.  He got the most shots, indeed; for his knowledge of the woods and great strength enabled him always to keep close to the spaniels.  He was a sight to marvel at, as he went crashing through bramble and blackthorn with a long even stride, just as if he had been walking through light springs.

At the end of the day we were all assembled outside the cover, where the game was being counted, except Bruce, who was still in the wood.  A stray shot every now and then gave notice of his approach.

     “We heard but the distant and random gun
     That the foe was sullenly firing,”

Guy quoted, laughing.

“Random! you may say that,” remarked Fallowfield.  “That man ought to be in a glass case, and ticketed; he’s a natural curiosity.  His bag to-day consists of one hare, one hen, and one—­sex unknown, for no one saw it rise or tried to pick it up; it was blown into a cloud of feathers within six feet of his muzzle.  Here he comes; don’t ask him what he’s done—­it’s cruelty.”

Bruce came up to us, looking rather more discontented than usual, but not nearly so savage as the keeper who had attended him all day, who immediately retreated among his fellows to relieve himself, by many oaths, of his suppressed disgust and scorn.  They offered him beer, but it was no use.  I heard him growl out, “That there muff’s enough to spile one’s taste for a fortnit.”

It was the hour of the wood-pigeons coming in to roost, and several were wheeling over our heads at a considerable height.

“There’s something for you to empty your gun at, Bruce,” Sir.  Raymond said, pointing to one that came rather nearer than the rest.

He was leveling, when Forrester cried out, “Five-and-twenty to five on the bird!”

“Done!” answered Bruce, as he pulled the trigger.  It was a long and not very easy shot, but the pigeon came whirling down through the tranches with a broken pinion.