‘Bang! once again, an’ grandfeythor wiv a groan flings his gun to the ground, for he had missed altogether that time.
‘“I’m fair bewitched,” he cries, and aal the while the pheasants were streamin’ overhead.
‘He trembled aal over, an’ we thought he was gannin’ to have a fit, for his brow was damp wi’ drops o’ sweat, an’ his eye wild an’ glassy. “Thoo damned fellow,” he cries, glancing round at Smithson, an’ takes a step towards him, “thoo’s cozened me somehow, thoo must have poisoned my beer!” he yells.
‘“Steady, sir, for God’s sake, steady!” says the keeper in his ear, an’ offers him his gun again ready loaded for another shot, for aal the while the pheasants came liftin’ above their heads.
‘Well, he takes it up again, looks at it an’ feels as though he didn’t recognise it, as though it had injured him somehow, an’, tremblin’ aal over, takes up a stand again. After a shot or two he kills one in beautiful style, an’ gradually getting back a bit o’ confidence he gets warmed up, an’ at the finish he has seventy-five oot o’ the hundred—oot o’ the last twenty never missin’ one.
‘And noo it was Smithson’s turn.
‘He makes a splendid start, wipin’ up the first fifteen birds wivvoot an error; after that again the pheasants come wilder, an’ gettin’ flurried belike, he tailors them. Then he gets steadied once more, an’ at the finish has ten cartridges left an’ seventy birds doon.
‘A wunnerfu’ chap for nerve he was, was Smithson; the mair excitement the cooler he gets.
‘A hen pheasant comes sailin’ awa’ to the right some sixty yards off.
‘“In shot?” asked he, as though he were passin’ the time o’ day.