"Too far--no use!" said Lord Ragnall, as I lifted the gun.

Still, I fired, holding I know not how much in front, and lo! that
pheasant died in mid air, falling with a mighty splash near the bank of
the lake, but at a great distance behind us. The shot was so remarkable
that everyone who saw it, including most of the beaters, who had passed
us by now, uttered a cheer, and the red-waistcoated old Jenkins, who had
stopped by us, remarked: "Well, bust me if that bain't a master one!"

Scroope made me angry by slapping me so hard upon the back that it hurt,
and nearly caused me to let off the other barrel of the gun. Charles
seemed to become one great grin, and Lord Ragnall, with a brief
congratulatory "Never enjoyed a shoot so much in my life," called to the
men who were posted behind us to pick up all the dead pheasants, being
careful to keep mine apart from those of Sir Junius Fortescue.

"You should have a hundred and forty-three at this stand," he said,
"allowing for every possible runner. Charles and I make the same total."

I remarked that I did not think there were many runners, as the No. 3
shot had served me very well, and getting into the boat was rowed to the
other side, where I received more congratulations. Then, as all further
shooting was out of the question because of the weather, we walked back
to the castle to tea.

As I emptied my cup Lord Ragnall, who had left the room, returned and
asked us to come and see the game. So we went, to find it laid out in
endless lines upon the snow-powdered grass in the quadrangle of the
castle, arranged in one main and two separate lots.