“You hit his tail, my lord. I saw a feather come out. But, my lord, as I told you, there ain’t no man living what can kill pigeons on the wing with a bullet, even when they seem to sit still in the air.”
“I have heard of one, Charles. Mr. Scroope has a friend from Africa staying with him who, he swears, could knock over four out of six.”
“Then, my lord, Mr. Scroope has a friend what lies,” replied Charles as he handed him the second rifle.
This was too much for me. I stepped forward, raising my hat politely, and said:
“Sir, forgive me for interrupting you, but you are not shooting at those wood-pigeons in the right way. Although they seem to hover just before they settle, they are dropping much faster than you think. Your keeper was mistaken when he said that you knocked a feather out of the tail of that last bird at which you fired two barrels. In both cases you shot at least a foot above it, and what fell was a leaf from the ilex tree.”
There was a moment’s silence, which was broken by Charles, who ejaculated in a thick voice:
“Well, of all the cheek!”
Lord Ragnall, however, for it was he, looked first angry and then amused.
“Sir,” he said, “I thank you for your advice, which no doubt is excellent, for it is certainly true that I have missed every pigeon which I tried to shoot with these confounded little rifles. But if you could demonstrate in practice what you so kindly set out in precept, the value of your counsel would be enhanced.”
Thus he spoke, mimicking, I have no doubt (for he had a sense of humour), the manner of my address, which nervousness had made somewhat pompous.