B-lf-r. Well, perhaps they'll join us later on.
S-l-sb-ry (aside). I hope so. Not much prospect of a decent bag if they don't, I fear. Fact is, my party this year's a failure. Scarcely a good gun among them. Finest and largest shooting-ground we've had for years, and yet we can't make a bag. Adjoining Moor supposed to be an absolute failure, and yet the party who've taken it—on most Liberal terms I hear, and with little hope of good sport—are picking up birds like fun. Pop, pop, pop, pop! and every bang a bird. Old G. getting quite cock-a-whoop about it. Fancies he'll top us at the end of the shoot. Quite wrong, of course. Now that, at last, we've really dropped upon that rascally gang of Irish poachers who had leagued themselves together to play the mischief with our Moor, I guess we shall astonish G.'s party a trifle. They wink at the poaching Paddies. Most unsportsmanlike conduct I ever heard of. What'll they do, now, I wonder? Still we can't afford to go on muffing and missing too long. Bang! There goes another. And one of our birds, too, I'll be bound. Hillo! by Jove, there's H-rt-ngt-n, sauntering this way, and by himself, too. Something like a shot, he is, and, if he'd join us—well, well, we shall see. Looks, as usual, as though he didn't care a single tomtit for things in general, and shooting in particular. Often lets a bird go from sheer indifference, but seldom misses one from lack of skill. Sure he can't be comfortable with that lot—indeed, he owns it. And they don't like his friendliness with us. Why can't he join us, and have done with it?
H-rt-ngt-n (approaching). Ah! there they are. And a jolly lot of Sportsmen they look. Poor S-l-sb-ry, I pity him. Ought to have swept the Moors. Birds plentiful, and lots of guns. But no shots. Doosed awkward. Know what it is to shoot with a party one doesn't get on with. Our party not the right sort now; awfully mixed—doesn't suit me a bit. G. has let in too many outsiders. If they'd rally round me now, and let me pick 'em! But the picked rallyers are so precious few, and the rest, instead of closing up to me, seem to be tailing off after Gl-dst-ne, somehow, confound 'em! One Ch-mb-rl-n doesn't make a shooting party, even with Br-ght thrown in. Don't want to shoot against S-l-sb-ry, though, I'm sure. Much rather drive the birds his way. But join him!—humph!
S-l-sb-ry (hailing). Hillo, H-rt-ngt-n, old man, how are you? All alone? Where's your party?
H-rt-ngt-n. Oh! they're along behind there, somewhere. How are you getting on?
S-l-sb-ry. Oh, pre-e-t-ty well—considering. Hardly got our hands in yet,—some of us (significantly). Birds a bit shy, too. But we shall get among them presently, and then!—(sotto voce). I say old fellow, why don't you join us—after lunch? Capital shooting-ground, but, ahem!—some of our fellows a leetle wild, and one or two regular cockneys. I wan't a real good gun or two badly, and then we should be safe for a splendid bag. (Aloud.) Come, old fellow, what do you say?
H-rt-ngt-n. Tha-a-nks. Awfully kind, I'm sure. But—ah—fact is, I'm just waiting to see if my Party's coming up. [Left waiting.
