Simpson again held up two brace of snipe, and again plunged them into his bag; nor would he gratify the justifiable longings of our gamekeeper by as much as a peep at them.
"This is capital sport. Why, this place is swarming with snipe," cried my guest, whilst his gun was being reloaded. "Depend upon it, it's a mistake to take dogs. The birds smell them. I'll try that bit of bog now."
"Ye'll have to mind yer futtin'," observed Billy. "It's crukked an' crass enough in some spots; I'd betther be wid ye."
"Certainly not," said my guest. "I always shoot alone."
"Och, folly yer own wish, sir; only mind yer futtin'."
Mr Simpson disappeared into the hollow in which the bog was situated, and, as before, bang! bang! we heard the report of both barrels.
"Be jabers, I'm bet intirely. Thim snipes must have been dhruv from the say, an' have come here unknownst to any wan. Ay, bawl away! Whisht! be the hokey, he's into the bog!"
A dismal wailing, accompanied by cries for help, arose from out the bog, where we found poor Simpson almost up to his chin, and endeavouring to support himself by his elbows.
"Ugh! ugh! lift me out, for heaven's sake! My new clothes—this coat that I never put on before" (his whaling garment)—"why did I come to this infernal hole. Ugh! ugh!"
We dragged him up, leaving his patent boots and stockings behind him. Billy bore him on his back to the house, where he was stripped and arrayed in evening costume.