"Sportin'! Begorra, he'll give yez sport enough before the day is half over," said the keeper, with a gloomy grin.
"There is always a covey to be found in this field," observed our host to Podgers, "so we'll give your dog the first chance."
"I—I—I'd rather you'd let him see what your dog will do," blurted Podgers.
"Oh, dear no!" returned Mr O'Rooney. "Let him go now. You'll take the first shot."
Very reluctantly indeed did Podgers unloose his pointer, uttering into the dog's ear in a low tone the most terrific and appalling threats should he fail to prove himself all that my fancy had painted him. With a loud bark of defiance Albatross darted away, scurrying through the turnips at the rate of fifteen miles an hour, utterly unmindful of whistle, call, blandishment, or threat, appearing now in one direction, now in another, and barking as though it had been part of its training.
"Stop that dog," cried our host, "he won't leave us a bird," as covey after covey of partridges rose beyond range and flew away, Albatross joyously barking after them.
"You said I was to have the first shot, Mr O'Rooney," said Podgers, in a tone full of solemnity.
"Certainly, if you can get it; which I doubt," was the curt reply.
Albatross had dashed within twenty yards of us, and was plunging off in another direction, when Podgers ran forward, raised his gun. Bang!
Albatross was sent to the happy hunting-grounds of his race.