“That’s all right down here,” he said, still laughing. “There’s game enough for everybody—even the darkeys.”
Sir Archy could not quite comprehend this—but he reflected that not much damage could be done by such a piece of ordnance as the old musket. However, he soon changed his mind—for Tom, by hook or by crook, managed to fill a gunny bag which he had concealed about his person quite as soon as Sir Archy and Farebrother filled their bags, and still he gave them all the best shots. Sir Archy’s wrath was aroused by some of Tom’s unique methods—such as knocking a partridge over with the long barrel of his musket as the bird was on the ground, and various other unsportsmanlike but successful devices. But there was no way of bringing Tom’s iniquities home to him, who evidently considered the birds of the air were to be caught as freely as the fishes of the sea. So Sir Archy soon relapsed into silent disgust. He was a superb shot, but Tom Battercake fairly rivaled him, while Farebrother was a bad third. After tramping about all the morning, they sat down on the edge of the woods to eat the luncheon with which Miss Jemima had provided them. While they were sitting on the ground, Tom was noticed to be eying Sir Archy’s beautiful gun with an air of longing. Presently he spoke up diffidently, scratching his wool.
“Marse Archy—please, suh—ain’ you gwi’ lem me have one shot outen dat ar muskit o’ yourn?”
Sir Archy’s first impulse was to throw the gun at Tom’s woolly head, but on reflection he merely scowled at him. Farebrother laughed.
“There, you rascal,” he said, “you may take my gun, and don’t blow your head off with it.”
Sir Archy was paralyzed with astonishment—not so Tom, who dashed for the gun and disappeared in the underbrush with Rattler, the dean of the corps of pointers at Corbin Hall. In a little while a regular fusillade was heard, and in half an hour Tom appeared with a string of partridges on his shoulder, and a broad grin across his face.
“Thankee, thankee, marster,” he said to Farebrother, returning the gun. “Dat ar muskit o’ yourn cert’ny does shoot good. I ain’ never shoot wid nuttin’ like her—an’ ef dis nigger had er gun like dat, ketch him doin’ no mo’ wuk in bird time!”
Sir Archy forbore comment, but he concluded that American sport, like everything else American, was highly original and inexplicable.
The week passed quickly enough. Every day, when the weather was fine, they went out in the society of Tom Battercake. In the afternoon the lively horses were hitched up to some of the mediæval vehicles at Corbin Hall, and they took a drive through the rich, flat country, Letty being usually of the party. She was surprisingly well behaved, but Farebrother doubted if it was a genuine reform, and suspected truly enough that it was only one of Letty’s protean disguises. When the week was out the Colonel would not hear of their departure, and Sir Archy promptly agreed to prolong his visit. Of course, when he decided to stay, Farebrother could not have been driven away with a stick. At the beginning of the second week Mr. Romaine, the Chessinghams and Miss Maywood arrived at Shrewsbury. Within a day or two the Colonel and Letty, and their two guests, set out one afternoon for Shrewsbury to pay their first call.
Instead of the picturesque shabbiness of Corbin Hall, Shrewsbury was in perfect repair. It was a fine old country house, and when they drove up to the door, it had an air of having been newly furbished up outside and in that was extremely displeasing to the Colonel.