So luncheon was produced, and ample justice done thereto, for these three young people had succeeded in establishing appetites of a kind practically unknown in the lower districts of Merrie England.
Willie, after luncheon and a draught of heather-ale, admitted he felt better, and could bear his misfortune with greater equanimity.
A start was now made for the turnip-fields, and here, the dogs having better play, excellent sport was obtained. The Gordon setter worked wonderfully well, keeping well in, not ranging, as Irish setters—beautiful though they be—are rather too apt to do. He made splendid points, and never less than two fell to the two guns if there was anything like a covey. This was good, for it must be remembered that the birds were now rather wild.
After the partridges, they once more adjourned to the blaeberry hill, to which by this time the wild pigeons had returned. They managed to bag a few more; and going on upwards to the heath-crested portion of the hill, they were lucky enough to bring down a couple of grouse and a ptarmigan.
Neither Sandie nor Maggie May, who were real children of the mist, felt one whit tired, but Willie frankly confessed that he was beginning to get both “dweeble” and drowsy.
Well, the sun was already so near the horizon that it was getting as red as a rising moon, and was just as rayless; so Maggie May, out of pity for Willie, proposed to return home.
Mackenzie was standing in his hall-door to welcome home the sportsmen, laden with the spoils of the chase.
“And what sort of a day have you had, boys?”
“Oh, splendid, sir, especially I,” said poor Willie. He then told him how he had loaded his gun to begin with.
“But,” said the parson, “couldn’t you——”