"Cock to you," I shouted, stepping forward so as to get Quatermain
between me and the faint angry light of the dying day, for I wanted to
see if he would "wipe my eye." I knew him to be a wonderful shot, but I
thought that cock would puzzle him.

I saw him raise his gun ever so little and bend forward, and at that
moment out flashed two woodcocks into the open, the one I had missed to
his right, and the other to his left.

At the same time a fresh shout arose of, "Woodcock over," and looking
down the spinney I saw a third bird high up in the air, being blown
along like a brown and whirling leaf straight over Quatermain's head.
And then followed the prettiest little bit of shooting that I ever saw.
The bird to the right was flying low, not ten yards from the line of
a hedgerow, and Quatermain took him first because he would become
invisible the soonest of any. Indeed, nobody who had not his hawk's eyes
could have seen to shoot at all. But he saw the bird well enough to kill
it dead as a stone. Then turning sharply, he pulled on the second bird
at about forty-five yards, and over he went. By this time the third
woodcock was nearly over him, and flying very high, straight down the
wind, a hundred feet up or more, I should say. I saw him glance at it as
he opened his gun, threw out the right cartridge and slipped in another,
turning round as he did so. By this time the cock was nearly fifty yards
away from him, and travelling like a flash. Lifting his gun he fired
after it, and, wonderful as the shot was, killed it dead. A tearing gust
of wind caught the dead bird, and blew it away like a leaf torn from an
oak, so that it fell a hundred and thirty yards off or more.

"I say, Quatermain," I said to him when the beaters were up, "do you