‘Smithson had agreed to shoot off the match at Crozier Hall, for grandfeythor had aboot the best shootin’ in the county at the time, an’ there was one place famous for the grand shots ye got overhead between two woods planted on either side of a dene, ye ken.
‘There was stubbles an’ beanfields usuallies beyond, an’ the pheasants, when driven off, used to fly right across the haugh below over into the woods beyond—mevvies aboot two hundred yards awa’.
‘Well, the great day comes. A fine, sunshiny October day it was, wiv a bit o’ wind from the west—the way the birds was to fly, ye ken, an’ a tarr’ble big comp’ny was assembled to see grandfeythor gie “the furrinor” his gruel.
‘Grandfeythor was i’ tremendous spirits that mornin’, an’ as full o’ gob as a torkey-cock; nothin’ could hold him; the world was a toy to him—like the geography chap[3] i’ the bairns’ books, ye ken—he felt sae tarr’ble strong an’ healthy. “Eyeball clear as a bairn’s,” says he, “hand steady as a rock, digestion a marvel,” an’ he pats hissel’ on the stomach as pleased as Punch.
‘They tosses as to who shoots first, an’ the coin comes doon for grandfeythor, an’ mighty delighted he was to be the first to shoot. There wasn’t much chance o’ grandfeythor’s bettin’ as much as he wished for, for naebody thought Smithson had a chanst, but what he could get he gobbled up like a hungry trout—fearfu’ odds they was—six to one on himself he had to lay, an’ often a bit more.
‘The match was for £1,000 a side, a hundred shots each at the first hundred pheasants within shot, an’ the referee to decide any disputed points.
‘Grandfeythor takes up his stand aboot thirty yards awa’ from the wood’s edge; then the referee fires a pistol, the head-beater i’ the wood above waves a white flag, an’ there’s a dead stillness as though we were aal i’ church prayin’.
‘There was a big clump o’ fir-trees standin’ right oot from the thick o’ the wood’s edge about fifty yards off mevvies, an’ two o’ the firs stood oot high above their fellows, an’ that was where the pheasants always broke oot, whizzin’ up like rockets as they came ower the top o’ them, an’ it was just at that point that grandfeythor had always nicked them clever—just as they cleared the rise of the topmost tree, ye ken, an’ started on their level flight for the opposite side. If ye missed them i’ front ye hadn’t much chanst behind, for they swept awa’ like lightnin’ doon the wind before ye could get turned round. Well, aal was stillness as I said, when sudden there comes a far-away cry through the clear air—“Cock forrard, cock forrard!” an’ in another two seconds there comes a clap o’ wings from above. Bang! gans grandfeythor’s gun, as a fine cock sweeps overhead. “D——!” says he, wiv a flush on his cheek; for aal there was to show was some half-dozen tail feathers left twirlin’, as if in mock’ry, forty yards in the air above him.
‘“Cock forrard, cock forrard!” comes the cry again, an’ grandfeythor grips a firmer stand wiv his feet, an’ grasps his weapon a bit tighter than before. Bang, bang! this time, an’ the cock gies a frightful lurch as though about to fall headlong, but steadies hissel’, rises a bit, an’ wins over to the other side.
‘“H——!” yells grandfeythor, trembling wi’ rage, an’ stamps upon the ground. “Cock forrard, cock forrard!” again comes the beater’s cry, an’ half a dozen come flightin’ overhead at once.