“Oh, I should like so much to shoot it while flying! Would it not be better to set it up first?”
“By no means,” answered the accountant. “‘A bird in the hand,’ etcetera. Take him as you find him—look sharp; he’ll be off in a second.”
Again the gun was pointed, and, after some difficulty in taking aim, fired.
“Ah, what a pity you’ve missed him!” shouted Harry. “But see, he’s not off yet; how tame he is, to be sure! Give him the other barrel, Hammy.”
This piece of advice proved to be unnecessary. In his anxiety to get the bird, Hamilton had cocked both barrels, and while gazing, half in disappointment, half in surprise, at the supposed bird, his finger unintentionally pressed the second trigger. In a moment the piece exploded. Being accidentally aimed in the right direction, it blew the lump of snow to atoms, and at the same time, hitting its owner on the chest with the butt, knocked him over flat upon his back.
“What a gun it is, to be sure!” said Harry, with a roguish laugh, as he assisted the discomfited sportsman to rise; “it knocks over game with butt and muzzle at once.”
“Quite a rare instance of one butt knocking another down,” added the accountant.
At this moment a large flock of ptarmigan, startled by the double report, rose with a loud, whirring noise about a hundred yards in advance, and after flying a short distance alighted.
“There’s real game at last, though,” cried the accountant, as he hurried after the birds, followed closely by his young friends.
They soon reached the spot where the flock had alighted, and after following up the tracks for a few yards further, set them up again. As the birds rose the accountant fired, and brought down two; Harry shot one and missed another; Hamilton being so nervously interested in the success of his comrades that he forgot to fire at all.