In a moment they both stood steady; and, almost at the
same instant, Tom Draw's Dash, and A---'s Grouse come to the point, all
on different birds, in a bit of very open ground, covered with
wintergreen about knee deep, and interspersed with only a few scattered
bushes.
Whir-r-r-r--up they got all at once! what a jostle--what a hubbub! Bang!
bang! crack! bang! crack! bang! Four barrels exploded in an instant,
almost simultaneously; and two sharp unmeaning cracks announced that, by
some means or other, Frank Forester's gun had missed fire with both
barrels.
"What the deuce is the matter, boys" cried Harry, laughing, as he threw
up his gun, after the hubbub had subsided, and dropped two birds--the
only two that fell, for all that waste of shot and powder.
"What the deuce ails you?" he repeated, no one replying, and all hands
looking bashful and crest-fallen. "Are you all drunk? or what is the
matter? I asked merely for information."
"Upon my life! I believe I am!" said Frank Forester. "For I have not
loaded my gun at all, since I killed those two last snipe. And, when we
got up from luncheon, I put on the caps just as if all was right--but
all is right now," he added, for he had repaired his fault, and loaded,
before A--- or fat Tom had done staring, each in the other's face, in
blank astonishment.
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