"That was well! Now, then, walk slowly and far apart--we must beat this three or four times, at least--the dogs will get them up!"
It was not a moment before the first bird rose, but it was quite two hours, and all the dinner horns had long blown for noon, before the last was bagged--the four guns having scored, in that one meadow, forty-nine English snipe--fifteen for Harry Archer--thirteen for Tom Draw--twelve for the Commodore, and only nine for Forester, who never killed snipe quite so well as he did cock or quail.
"And now, boys," exclaimed Tom, as he flung his huge carcase on the ground, with a thud that shook it many a rod around--"there's a cold roast fowl, and some nice salt pork and crackers, in that 'ar game bag-- and I'm a whale now, I tell you, for a drink!"
"Which will you take to drink, Tom?" inquired Forester, very gravely-- "fowl, pork, or crackers? Here they are, all of them! I prefer whiskey and water, myself!" qualifying, as he spoke, a moderate cup with some of the ice-cold water which welled out in a crystal stream from a small basin under the wreathed roots of the sycamore which overshadowed them.
"None of your nonsense, Forester--hand us the liquor, lad--I'm dry, I tell you!"
"I wish you'd tell me something I don't know, then, if you feel communicative; for I know that you're dry--now and always! Well! don't be mad, old fellow, here's the bottle--don't empty it--that's all!"
"Well! now I've drinked," said Tom, after a vast potation, "now I've drinked good--we'll have a bite and rest awhile, and smoke a pipe; and then we'll use them quail, and we'll have time to pick up twenty cock in Hell-hole arterwards, and that won't be a slow day's work, I reckon."
THE QUAIL
"Certainly this is a very lovely country," exclaimed the Commodore suddenly, as he gazed with a quiet eye, puffing his cigar the while, over the beautiful vale, with the clear expanse of Wickham's Pond in the middle foreground, and the wild hoary mountains framing the rich landscape in the distance.