"Not so particular but what I'm glad to see you. You shoot, don't you?"
"Shoot!" said Phineas. It could not be possible that Mr. Slide was intending, after this abrupt fashion, to propose a duel with pistols.
"Grouse and pheasants, and them sort of things?" asked Mr. Slide.
"Oh, ah; I understand. Yes, I shoot sometimes."
"Is it the 12th or 20th for grouse in Scotland?"
"The 12th," said Phineas. "What makes you ask that just now?"
"I'm doing a letter about it,—advising men not to shoot too many of the young birds, and showing that they'll have none next year if they do. I had a fellow here just now who knew all about it, and he put down a lot; but I forgot to make him tell me the day of beginning. What's a good place to date from?"
Phineas suggested Callender or Stirling.
"Stirling's too much of a town, isn't it? Callender sounds better for game, I think."
So the letter which was to save the young grouse was dated from Callender; and Mr. Quintus Slide having written the word, threw down his pen, came off his stool, and rushed at once at his subject.