The darkey was not slow in complying with the order; and, from the manner in which he went to work, it was evident, that unless Mr Smythje should make better shooting after luncheon than he had done before it, the game-bag would go back to the house much lighter than it had left it.
While Quashie was masticating his meal, the refreshed sportsman—his spirits elevated by the claret he had quaffed—bethought him of taking a stroll by himself. There was no time to be wasted—as the contingency of having to return to Mount Welcome with an empty bag had already begun to suggest itself; and after the sanguine expectations which his grand sporting costume must have given rise to—assisted by some little bravado he had indulged in while leave-taking—his failing to fulfil these expectations could not be otherwise than humiliating.
He resolved, therefore, to return to his shooting with a more serious earnestness, and, if possible, make up for the deficiencies of the morning.
Slinging on his horn and pouch, and laying hold of his gun, the sportsman once more started off, leaving his retriever busily employed in polishing off the “drumsticks” of the capon.
Volume Two—Chapter Three.
Stalking a Turkey.
It almost seemed as if the divine patron of the chase—the good Saint Hubert—had regarded the spilt wine as an oblation to himself, and, in return, had consented to give the sportsman success.
Scarce had the latter advanced two hundred yards from the spot where he had lunched, when his eyes were gratified by the spectacle of a large, fine-looking bird, perched upon the top of a tree stump.