It had fallen among some underbrush not far away.
“Shall I?” asked Harry, turning to Congreve, whom he recognized as his employer, and the only one entitled to order him about.
“What do you want it for, Philip?” asked Congreve. “It’s only a crow—good for nothing.”
“Never mind; I want it,” answered Philip.
In truth, it was the first bird he had ever succeeded in shooting, though he would not have been willing to acknowledge this, and he wanted to display it at home as a trophy of his skill.
“Then you may get it,” said Congreve, who, in spite of his dishonorable character, was, in manners, more of a gentleman than Philip.
Harry at once plunged into the thicket, and not without difficulty succeeded in finding the crow, which he brought out and delivered to Philip. The latter only consented to carry it on account of the pride he felt in his success as a sportsman.
“Here, take this gun, Gilbert, and try your luck next,” said Congreve.
“I suppose he will eclipse us all,” Philip remarked, with a sneer.
“I don’t know about that,” returned Harry, good-naturedly. “I haven’t been out many times, not having any gun of my own.”