exactly like a picture by Van Dyck which Mr. Savage had just informed me
was that of one of his lordship's ancestors of the time of Charles I.

Standing behind another oak, I observed that he was trying to shoot
wood-pigeons as they descended to feed upon the acorns, for which the
hard weather had made them greedy. From time to time these beautiful
blue birds appeared and hovered a moment before they settled, whereon
the sportsman fired and--they flew away. _Bang! Bang!_ went the
double-barrelled rifle, and off fled the pigeon.

"Damn!" said the sportsman in a pleasant, laughing voice; "that's the
twelfth I have missed, Charles."

"You hit his tail, my lord. I saw a feather come out. But, my lord, as
I told you, there ain't no man living what can kill pigeons on the wing
with a bullet, even when they seem to sit still in the air."

"I have heard of one, Charles. Mr. Scroope has a friend from Africa
staying with him who, he swears, could knock over four out of six."

"Then, my lord, Mr. Scroope has a friend what lies," replied Charles as
he handed him the second rifle.

This was too much for me. I stepped forward, raising my hat politely,
and said:

"Sir, forgive me for interrupting you, but you are not shooting at those
wood-pigeons in the right way. Although they seem to hover just before
they settle, they are dropping much faster than you think. Your keeper
was mistaken when he said that you knocked a feather out of the tail of