“Now, do you hear that, Colonel Quaritch?” went on Ida. “I have bet Mr. Cossey a pair of gloves that you will kill more partridges this afternoon than he will, so I hope you won’t make me lose them.”
“Goodness gracious,” said the Colonel, in much alarm. “Why, the last partridge-driving that I had was on the slopes of some mountains in Afghanistan. I daresay that I shan’t hit anything. Besides,” he said with some irritation, “I don’t like being set up to shoot against people.”
“Oh, of course,” said Edward loftily, “if Colonel Quaritch does not like to take it up there’s an end of it.”
“Well,” said the Colonel, “if you put it in that way I don’t mind trying, but I have only one gun and you have two.”
“Oh, that will be all right,” said Ida to the Colonel. “You shall have George’s gun; he never tries to shoot when they drive partridges, because he cannot hit them. He goes with the beaters. It is a very good gun.”
The Colonel took up the gun and examined it. It was of about the same bend and length as his own, but of a better quality, having once been the property of James de la Molle.
“Yes,” he said, “but then I haven’t got a loader.”
“Never mind. I’ll do that, I know all about it. I often used to hold my brother’s second gun when we drove partridges, because he said I was so much quicker than the men. Look,” and she took the gun and rested one knee on the turf; “first position, second position, third position. We used to have regular drills at it,” and she sighed.
The Colonel laughed heartily, for it was a curious thing to see this stately woman handling a gun with all the skill and quickness of a practised shot. Besides, as the loader idea involved a whole afternoon of Ida’s society he certainly was not inclined to negative it. But Edward Cossey did not smile; on the contrary he positively scowled with jealousy, and was about to make some remark when Ida held up her finger.
“Hush,” she said, “here comes my father” (the Squire had been counting the game); “he hates bets, so you mustn’t say anything about our match.”