Shooting a Bird, and putting Shot into a Calf!

“ON'Y think ven ve thought o' getting into a preserve—that ve got into a pickle,” said Sprigg, still chuckling over their last adventure.

“Hush!” cried Grubb, laying his hand upon his arm—“see that bird hopping there?”

“Ve'll soon make him hop the twig, and no mistake,” remarked Spriggs.

“There he goes into the 'edge to get his dinner, I s'pose.”

“Looking for a 'edge-stake, I dare say,” said the facetious Spriggs.

“Now for it!” cried Grubb! “pitch into him!” and drawing his trigger he accidentally knocked off the bird, while Spriggs discharged the contents of his gun through the hedge.

“Hit summat at last!” exclaimed the delighted Grubb, scampering towards the thorny barrier, and clambering up, he peeped into an adjoining garden.

“Will you have the goodness to hand me that little bird I've just shot off your 'edge,” said he to a gardener, who was leaning on his spade and holding his right leg in his hand.

“You fool,” cried the horticulturist, “you've done a precious job— You've shot me right in the leg—O dear! O dear! how it pains!”

“I'm werry sorry—take the bird for your pains,” replied Grubb, and apprehending another pig in a poke, he bobbed down and retreated as fast as his legs could carry him.

“Vot's frightened you?” demanded Spriggs, trotting off beside his chum, “You ain't done nothing, have you?”

“On'y shot a man, that's all.”

“The devil!”

“It's true—and there'll be the devil to pay if ve're cotched, I can tell you—'Vy the gardener vill swear as it's a reg'lar plant!—and there von't be no damages at all, if so be he says he can't do no work, and is obleeged to keep his bed—so mizzle!” With the imaginary noises of a hot pursuit at their heels, they leaped hedge, ditch, and style without daring to cast a look behind them—and it was not until they had put two good miles of cultivated land between them and the spot of their unfortunate exploit that they ventured to wheel about and breathe again.

“Vell, if this 'ere ain't a rum go!”—said Spriggs—“in four shots—ve've killed a pig—knocked the life out o' one dicky-bird—and put a whole charge into a calf. Vy, if ve go on at this rate we shall certainly be taken up and get a setting down in the twinkling of a bed-post!”

“See if I haim at any think agin but vot's sitting on a rail or a post”—said Mr. Richard—“or s'pose Spriggs you goes on von side of an 'edge and me on t'other—and ve'll get the game between us—and then—”

“Thankye for me, Dick,” interrupted Spriggs, “but that'll be a sort o' cross-fire that I sha'n't relish no how.—Vy it'll be just for all the world like fighting a jewel—on'y ve shall exchange shots—p'r'aps vithout any manner o' satisfaction to 'ither on' us. No—no—let's shoot beside von another—for if ve're beside ourselves ve may commit suicide.”

“My vig!” cries Mr. Grubb, “there's a covey on 'em.”

“Vere?”

“There!”

“Charge 'em, my lad.”

“Stop! fust charge our pieces.”

Having performed this preliminary act, the sportsmen crouched in a dry ditch and crawled stealthily along in order to approach the tempting covey as near as possible.

Up flew the birds, and with trembling hands they simultaneously touched the triggers.

“Ve've nicked some on 'em.”

“Dead as nits,” said Spriggs.

“Don't be in an hurry now,” said the cautious Mr. Grubb, “ve don't know for certain yet, vot ve hav'n't hit.”

“It can't be nothin' but a balloon then,” replied Spriggs, “for ve on'y fired in the hair I'll take my 'davy.”

Turning to the right and the left and observing nothing, they boldly advanced in order to appropriate the spoil.

“Here's feathers at any rate,” said Spriggs, “ve've blown him to shivers, by jingo!”

“And here's a bird! hooray!” cried the delighted Grubb—“and look'ee, here's another—two whole 'uns—and all them remnants going for nothing as the linen-drapers has it!”

“Vot are they, Dick?” inquired Spriggs, whose ornithological knowledge was limited to domestic poultry; “sich voppers ain't robins or sparrers, I take it.”

“Vy!” said the dubious Mr. Richard-resting on his gun and throwing one leg negligently over the other—“I do think they're plovers, or larks, or summat of that kind.”

“Vot's in a name; the thing ve call a duck by any other name vould heat as vell!” declaimed Spriggs, parodying the immortal Shakspeare.

“Talking o' heating, Spriggs—I'm rayther peckish—my stomick's bin a-crying cupboard for a hour past.—Let's look hout for a hinn!”