disgusting bad shot. What is the good of pointing for you? It's enough
to make a dog sick."

The covey--or rather the collection of old birds, for this kind of
partridge sometimes "packs" just before the breeding season--had
scattered all about the place. It was not long before Pontac found some
of them, and this time John got one bird--a beautiful great partridge he
was too, with yellow legs--and missed another. Again Pontac pointed, and
a brace rose. Bang! down goes one; bang with the other barrel. Caught
him, by Jove, just as he topped the stone. Hullo! Pontac is still on the
point. Slip in two more cartridges. Oh, a leash this time! bang! bang!
and down come a brace of them--two brace of partridges without moving a
yard.

Life has joys for all men, but, I verily believe, it has no joy to
compare to that of the moderate shot and earnest sportsman when he
has just killed half a dozen driven partridges without a miss, or ten
rocketing pheasants with eleven cartridges, or, better still, a couple
of woodcock right and left. Sweet to the politician are the cheers
that announce the triumph of his cause and of himself; sweet to the
desponding writer is the unexpected public recognition by reviewers of
talents with which previously nobody had been much impressed; sweet to
all men are the light of women's eyes and the touch of women's lips. But
though he have experienced all these things, to the true sportsman and
the _moderate shot_, sweeter far is it to see the arched wings of the
driven bird bent like Cupid's bow come flashing fast towards him, to
feel the touch of the stock as it fits itself against his shoulder,
and the kindly give of the trigger, and then, oh thrilling sight! to
perceive the wonderful and yet awful change from life to death, the puff
of feathers, and the hurtling passage of the dull mass borne onward by