As he spoke the other hind, doubling round a mass of fallen rock, almost leaped into McGregor’s arms. It darted aside, and the seaman, uttering a wild shout, half raised his gun and fired. The butt hit him on the chest and knocked him down, while the shot went whizzing in all directions round his comrades, cutting their garments, but fortunately doing them no serious injury.
“Oh, Shames! ye was always in too great a hurry,” remonstrated the skipper, oblivious of the fact that he himself had been too slow.
“Quick, man, fire!” cried Ivor, testily.
The captain tried to energise. In doing so he let off one barrel at the celestial orbs unintentionally. The other might as well have gone the same way, for all the execution it did.
When he looked at the keeper, half apologetically, he saw that he was quietly examining his leg, which had been penetrated by a pellet.
“Eh! man, are ’ee shot?” cried the captain, anxiously.
“Oo, ay, but I’m none the worse o’ it! I had a presentiment o’ somethin’ o’ this sort, an’ loaded his gun wi’ small shot,” replied the keeper.
Profound were the expressions of apology from McGregor, on learning what he had done, and patronisingly cool were the assurances of Ivor that the injury was a mere flea-bite. And intense was the astonishment when it was discovered that a stag and a hind had fallen to old MacRummle with that “treemendious” repeater! And great was the laughter afterwards, at lunch time on the field of battle, when Junkie gravely related that Barret was upon a precipice, trying to reach a rare plant, when the deer passed, so that he did not get a shot at all! And confused was the expression of Barret’s face when he admitted the fact, though he carefully avoided stating that his mind was taken up at the time with a very different kind of dear!
It was afternoon when the assembled party, including drivers, sat down to luncheon on the hill-side, and began to allay the cravings of appetite, and at the same time to recount or discuss in more or less energetic tones, the varied experiences of the morning. Gradually the victuals were consumed, and the experiences pretty well thrashed out, including those of poor Mabberly, who had failed to get even a chance of a shot.
“An’ sure it’s no wonder at all,” was Pat Quin’s remark; “for the noise was almost as bad as that night when you an’ me, sor, was out after the elephants in that great hunt in the North-western provinces of Indy.”