a satisfaction to him to reflect that he could not charge himself with
having been, wittingly, the death of more than a dozen of his
fellow-creatures."

It was a problem whereon Mallett ruminated gravely long
afterward--"Wherever Mr. Bruce's shot do go to?" He could not conceive
so much lead being dispersed in the atmosphere without a more adequate
result. This want of dexterity, too, was thrown into strong relief that
day; for all the other men, putting myself out of the question, were
rare masters of the art.

Livingstone headed the list, though Fallowfield ran him hard. He got the
most shots, indeed; for his knowledge of the woods and great strength
enabled him always to keep close to the spaniels. He was a sight to
marvel at, as he went crashing through bramble and blackthorn with a
long even stride, just as if he had been walking through light springs.

At the end of the day we were all assembled outside the cover, where the
game was being counted, except Bruce, who was still in the wood. A stray
shot every now and then gave notice of his approach.


"We heard but the distant and random gun
That the foe was sullenly firing,"


Guy quoted, laughing.

"Random! you may say that," remarked Fallowfield. "That man ought to be
in a glass case, and ticketed; he's a natural curiosity. His bag to-day