“There is little chance of that,” I said, “for, as I told you, I have never shot pheasants before. Still, I’ll try, as you wish it.”
“That’s right. And look here, Mr. Quatermain, shoot well forward of them. You see, I am venturing to advise you now, as you advised me yesterday. Shot does not travel so fast as ball, and the pheasant is a bird that is generally going much quicker than you think. Now, here we are. Charles will show you your stand. Good luck to you.”
Ten minutes later the game began outside of a long covert, all the seven guns being posted within sight of each other. So occupied was I in watching the preliminaries, which were quite new to me, that I allowed first a hare and then a hen pheasant to depart without firing at them, which hen pheasant, by the way, curved round and was beautifully killed by Van Koop, who stood two guns off upon my right.
“Look here, Allan,” said Scroope, “if you are going to beat your African friend you had better wake up, for you won’t do it by admiring the scenery or that squirrel on a tree.”
So I woke up. Just at that moment there was a cry of “cock forward.” I thought it meant a cock pheasant, and was astonished when I saw a beautiful brown bird with a long beak flitting towards me through the tops of the oak trees.
“Am I to shoot at that?” I asked.
“Of course. It is a woodcock,” answered Scroope.
By this time the brown bird was rocking past me within ten yards. I fired and killed it, for where it had been appeared nothing but a cloud of feathers. It was a quick and clever shot, or so I thought. But when Charles stepped out and picked from the ground only a beak and a head, a titter of laughter went down the whole line of guns and loaders.
“I say, old chap,” said Scroope, “if you will use No. 3 shot, let your birds get a little farther off you.”
The incident upset me so much that immediately afterwards I missed three easy pheasants in succession, while Van Koop added two to his bag.