“Thankye for me, Dick,” interrupted Spriggs, “but that'll be a sort o' cross-fire that I sha'n't relish no how.—Vy it'll be just for all the world like fighting a jewel—on'y ve shall exchange shots—p'r'aps vithout any manner o' satisfaction to 'ither on' us. No—no—let's shoot beside von another—for if ve're beside ourselves ve may commit suicide.”
“My vig!” cries Mr. Grubb, “there's a covey on 'em.”
“Vere?”
“There!”
“Charge 'em, my lad.”
“Stop! fust charge our pieces.”
Having performed this preliminary act, the sportsmen crouched in a dry ditch and crawled stealthily along in order to approach the tempting covey as near as possible.
Up flew the birds, and with trembling hands they simultaneously touched the triggers.
“Ve've nicked some on 'em.”
“Dead as nits,” said Spriggs.