"Yes, you bet. We've got the others all right," said the young fellow,
and everybody laughed.

Men and boys began to gather until the field was half filled with them.
They all wore grinning countenances. "For Heaven's sake, boys, don't act
as if it were so awful funny, or you'll spoil the whole thing," said the
young fellow who had come for the pigeons.

Only one face was entirely sober, even severe, as with resolve, and that
was the face of a small, mean-looking man between forty and fifty. He
carried a gun, and looked at once important and greedy. "That's Jim
Goodman," whispered Doctor Gordon to James, "and he's a crack shot, too.
Albert isn't as sure, though he's pretty good, too."

James began to catch the spirit of it himself. He felt at once disgusted
and uneasy about the doctor, but as for himself he was only a young
man, after all, and sport was still sweet to his soul. He shouted with
the rest when the first pigeon was launched into the air, and Albert
Dodd, a tall, serious young man, fired. He hit the bird, which at once
flew into fragments, as a clay pigeon properly should.

Georgie K. came up and joined them. He was evidently not in the secret,
for he looked intensely puzzled when Jim Goodman, who had next shot, hit
his bird fairly, but it only hopped about and descended unbroken. "What
the deuce!" he said.

"Hush up, Georgie K.," said Doctor Gordon. The other man turned and
looked at him keenly, but the doctor's imperturbable, smiling face was
on the sport. Georgie K.'s great pink face grew grave. Every time Albert
Dodd fired the pigeons dropped in pieces, every time Jim Goodman fired