"That's nine birds down before we have bagged one," said Archer; "I hope
no more will rise, or we'll be losing these."
But this time his hopes were not destined to meet accomplishment, for
seven more woodcock got up, five of which were scattered in the grass
around us, wing-broken or dead, before we had even bagged the bird which
Shot was gently mouthing.
"I never saw anything like this in my life, Tom. Did you?" cried Harry.
"I never did, by George!" responded Tom. "Now do you think there's any
three men to be found in York, such darned etarnal fools as to be
willing to shoot a match agin us?"
"To be sure I do, lots of them; and to beat us too, to boot, you stupid
old porpoise. Why, there's Harry T--- and Nick L---, and a dozen more of
them, that you and I would have no more chance with, than a gallon of
brandy would have of escaping from you at a single sitting. But we have
shot pretty well, to-day. Now do, for heaven's sake, let us try to bag
them!"
And scattered though they were in all directions, among the most
infernal tangled grass I ever stood on, those excellent dogs retrieved
them one by one, till every bird was pocketed. We then beat on and swept
the rest of the meadow, and the outer verge of the alders, picking up
three more birds, making a total of seventeen brought to bag in less
than half an hour.
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