A PLEASANT DAY WITH ANUNPLEASANT TERMINATIONhe birds, who, happily for their own peace of mind andpersonal comfort, were in blissful ignorance of thepreparations which had been making to astonish them, onthe first of September, hailed it, no doubt, as one of thepleasantest mornings they had seen that season. Many a youngpartridge who strutted complacently among the stubble, with allthe finicking coxcombry of youth, and many an older one whowatched his levity out of his little round eye, with thecontemptuous air of a bird of wisdom and experience, alikeunconscious of their approaching doom, basked in the freshmorning air with lively and blithesome feelings, and a few hoursafterwards were laid low upon the earth. But we grow affecting:

　　let us proceed.

　　In plain commonplace matter-of-fact, then, it was a finemorning―so fine that you would scarcely have believed that thefew months of an English summer had yet flown by. Hedges,fields, and trees, hill and moorland, presented to the eye theirever-varying shades of deep rich green; scarce a leaf had fallen,scarce a sprinkle of yellow mingled with the hues of summer,warned you that autumn had begun. The sky was cloudless; thesun shone out bright and warm; the songs of birds, the hum ofmyriads of summer insects, filled the air; and the cottage gardens,crowded with flowers of every rich and beautiful tint, sparkled, inthe heavy dew, like beds of glittering jewels. Everything bore thestamp of summer, and none of its beautiful colour had yet fadedfrom the die.

　　Such was the morning, when an open carriage, in which werethree Pickwickians (Mr. Snodgrass having preferred to remain athome), Mr. Wardle, and Mr. Trundle, with Sam Weller on the boxbeside the driver, pulled up by a gate at the roadside, before whichstood a tall, raw-boned gamekeeper, and a half-booted, leather-legginged boy, each bearing a bag of capacious dimensions, andaccompanied by a brace of pointers.

　　‘I say,’ whispered Mr. Winkle to Wardle, as the man let downthe steps, ‘they don’t suppose we’re going to kill game enough tofill those bags, do they?’

　　‘Fill them!’ exclaimed old Wardle. ‘Bless you, yes! You shall fillone, and I the other; and when we’ve done with them, the pocketsof our shooting-jackets will hold as much more.’

　　Mr. Winkle dismounted without saying anything in reply to thisobservation; but he thought within himself, that if the partyremained in the open air, till he had filled one of the bags, theystood a considerable chance of catching colds in their heads.

　　‘Hi, Juno, lass-hi, old girl; down, Daph, down,’ said Wardle,caressing the dogs. ‘Sir Geoffrey still in Scotland, of course,Martin?’

　　The tall gamekeeper replied in the affirmative, and looked withsome surprise from Mr. Winkle, who was holding his gun as if hewished his coat pocket to save him the trouble of pulling thetrigger, to Mr. Tupman, who was holding his as if he was afraid ofit―as there is no earthly reason to doubt he really was.

　　‘My friends are not much in the way of this sort of thing yet,Martin,’ said Wardle, noticing the look. ‘Live and learn, you know.

　　They’ll be good shots one of these days. I beg my friend Winkle’spardon, though; he has had some practice.’

　　Mr. Winkle smiled feebly over his blue neckerchief inacknowledgment of the compliment, and got himself somysteriously entangled with his gun, in his modest confusion, thatif the piece had been loaded, he must inevitably have shot himselfdead upon the spot.

　　‘You mustn’t handle your piece in that ’ere way, when you cometo have the charge in it, sir,’ said the tall gamekeeper gruffly; ‘orI’m damned if you won’t make cold meat of some on us.’

　　Mr. Winkle, thus admonished, abruptly altered his position, andin so doing, contrived to bring the barrel into pretty smart contactwith Mr. Weller’s head.

　　‘Hollo!’ said Sam, picking up his hat, which had been knockedoff, and rubbing his temple. ‘Hollo, sir! if you comes it this vay,you’ll fill one o’ them bags, and something to spare, at one fire.’

　　Here the leather-legginged boy laughed very heartily, and thentried to look as if it was somebody else, whereat Mr. Winklefrowned majestically.

　　‘Where did you tell the boy to meet us with the snack, Martin?’

　　inquired Wardle.

　　‘Side of One-tree Hill, at twelve o’clock, sir.’

　　‘That’s not Sir Geoffrey’s land, is it?’

　　‘No, sir; but it’s close by it. It’s Captain Boldwig’s land; butthere’ll be nobody to interrupt us, and there’s a fine bit of turfthere.’

　　‘Very well,’ said old Wardle. ‘Now the sooner we’re off thebetter. Will you join us at twelve, then, Pickwick?’

　　Mr. Pickwick was particularly desirous to view the sport, themore especially as he was rather anxious in respect of Mr.

　　Winkle’s life and limbs. On so inviting a morning, too, it was verytantalising to turn back, and leave his friends to enjoy themselves.

　　It was, therefore, with a very rueful air that he replied―‘Why, I suppose I must.’

　　‘Ain’t the gentleman a shot, sir?’ inquired the long gamekeeper.

　　‘No,’ replied Wardle; ‘and he’s lame besides.’

　　‘I should very much like to go,’ said Mr. Pickwick―‘very much.’

　　There was a short pause of commiseration.

　　‘There’s a barrow t’other side the hedge,’ said the boy. ‘If thegentleman’s servant would wheel along the paths, he could keepnigh us, and we could lift it over the stiles, and that.’

　　‘The wery thing,’ said Mr. Weller, who was a party interested,inasmuch as he ardently longed to see the sport. ‘The wery thing.

　　Well said, Smallcheek; I’ll have it out in a minute.’

　　But here a difficulty arose. The long gamekeeper resolutelyprotested against the introduction into a shooting party, of agentleman in a barrow, as a gross violation of all established rulesand precedents. It was a great objection, but not aninsurmountable one. The gamekeeper having been coaxed andfeed, and having, moreover, eased his mind by ‘punching’ the headof the inventive youth who had first suggested the use of themachine, Mr. Pickwick was placed in it, and off the party set;Wardle and the long gamekeeper leading the way, and Mr.

　　Pickwick in the barrow, propelled by Sam, bringing up the rear.

　　‘Stop, Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, when they had got half acrossthe first field.

　　‘What’s the matter now?’ said Wardle.

　　‘I won’t suffer this barrow to be moved another step,’ said Mr.

　　Pickwick, resolutely, ’un less Winkle carries that gun of his in adifferent manner.’

　　‘How am I to carry it?’ said the wretched Winkle. ‘Carry it withthe muzzle to the ground,’ replied Mr. Pickwick.

　　‘It’s so unsportsmanlike,’ reasoned Winkle.

　　‘I don’t care whether it’s unsportsmanlike or not,’ replied Mr.

　　Pickwick; ‘I am not going to be shot in a wheel-barrow, for thesake of appearances, to please anybody.’

　　‘I know the gentleman’ll put that ’ere charge into somebodyafore he’s done,’ growled the long man.

　　‘Well, well―I don’t mind,’ said poor Winkle, turning his gun-stock uppermost―‘there.’

　　‘Anythin’ for a quiet life,’ said Mr. Weller; and on they wentagain.

　　‘Stop!’ said Mr. Pickwick, after they had gone a few yardsfarther.

　　‘What now?’ said Wardle.

　　‘That gun of Tupman’s is not safe: I know it isn’t,’ said Mr.

　　Pickwick.

　　‘Eh? What! not safe?’ said Mr. Tupman, in a tone of greatalarm.

　　‘Not as you are carrying it,’ said Mr. Pickwick. ‘I am very sorryto make any further objection, but I cannot consent to go on,unless you carry it as Winkle does his.’

　　‘I think you had better, sir,’ said the long gamekeeper, ‘oryou’re quite as likely to lodge the charge in yourself as in anythingelse.’

　　Mr. Tupman, with the most obliging haste, placed his piece in the position required, and the party moved on again; the twoamateurs marching with reversed arms, like a couple of privates ata royal funeral.

　　The dogs suddenly came to a dead stop, and the partyadvancing stealthily a single pace, stopped too.

　　‘What’s the matter with the dogs’ legs?’ whispered Mr. Winkle.

　　‘How queer they’re standing.’

　　‘Hush, can’t you?’ replied Wardle softly. ‘Don’t you see, they’remaking a point?’

　　‘Making a point!’ said Mr. Winkle, staring about him, as if heexpected to discover some particular beauty in the landscape,which the sagacious animals were calling special attention to.

　　‘Making a point! What are they pointing at?’

　　‘Keep your eyes open,’ said Wardle, not heeding the question inthe excitement of the moment. ‘Now then.’

　　There was a sharp whirring noise, that made Mr. Winkle startback as if he had been shot himself. Bang, bang, went a couple ofguns―the smoke swept quickly away over the field, and curledinto the air.

　　‘Where are they!’ said Mr. Winkle, in a state of the highestexcitement, turning round and round in all directions. ‘Where arethey? Tell me when to fire. Where are they―where are they?’

　　‘Where are they!’ said Wardle, taking up a brace of birds whichthe dogs had deposited at his feet. ‘Why, here they are.’

　　‘No, no; I mean the others,’ said the bewildered Winkle.

　　‘Far enough off, by this time,’ replied Wardle, coolly reloadinghis gun.

　　‘We shall very likely be up with another covey in five minutes,’

　　said the long gamekeeper. ‘If the gentleman begins to fire now,perhaps he’ll just get the shot out of the barrel by the time theyrise.’

　　‘Ha! ha! ha!’ roared Mr. Weller.

　　‘Sam,’ said Mr. Pickwick, compassionating his follower’sconfusion and embarrassment.

　　‘Sir.’

　　‘Don’t laugh.’

　　‘Certainly not, sir.’ So, by way of indemnification, Mr. Wellercontorted his features from behind the wheel-barrow, for theexclusive amusement of the boy with the leggings, who thereuponburst into a boisterous laugh, and was summarily cuffed by thelong gamekeeper, who wanted a pretext for turning round, to hidehis own merriment.

　　‘Bravo, old fellow!’ said Wardle to Mr. Tupman; ‘you fired thattime, at all events.’

　　‘Oh, yes,’ replied Mr. Tupman, with conscious pride. ‘I let it off.’

　　‘Well done. You’ll hit something next time, if you look sharp.

　　Very easy, ain’t it?’

　　‘Yes, it’s very easy,’ said Mr. Tupman. ‘How it hurts one’sshoulder, though. It nearly knocked me backwards. I had no ideathese small firearms kicked so.’

　　‘Ah,’ said the old gentleman, smiling, ‘you’ll get used to it intime. Now then―all ready―all right with the barrow there?’

　　‘All right, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller.

　　‘Come along, then.’

　　‘Hold hard, sir,’ said Sam, raising the barrow.

　　‘Aye, aye,’ replied Mr. Pickwick; and on they went, as briskly asneed be.

　　‘Keep that barrow back now,’ cried Wardle, when it had beenhoisted over a stile into another field, and Mr. Pickwick had beendeposited in it once more.

　　‘All right, sir,’ replied Mr. Weller, pausing.

　　‘Now, Winkle,’ said the old gentleman, ‘follow me softly, anddon’t be too late this time.’

　　‘Never fear,’ said Mr. Winkle. ‘Are they pointing?’

　　‘No, no; not now. Quietly now, quietly.’ On they crept, and veryquietly they would have advanced, if Mr. Winkle, in theperformance of some very intricate evolutions with his gun, hadnot accidentally fired, at the most critical moment, over the boy’shead, exactly in the very spot where the tall man’s brain wouldhave been, had he been there instead.

　　‘Why, what on earth did you do that for?’ said old Wardle, asthe birds flew unharmed away.

　　‘I never saw such a gun in my life,’ replied poor Mr. Winkle,looking at the lock, as if that would do any good. ‘It goes off of itsown accord. It will do it.’

　　‘Will do it!’ echoed Wardle, with something of irritation in hismanner. ‘I wish it would kill something of its own accord.’

　　‘It’ll do that afore long, sir,’ observed the tall man, in a low,prophetic voice.

　　‘What do you mean by that observation, sir?’ inquired Mr.

　　Winkle, angrily.

　　‘Never mind, sir, never mind,’ replied the long gamekeeper;‘I’ve no family myself, sir; and this here boy’s mother will getsomething handsome from Sir Geoffrey, if he’s killed on his land.

　　Load again, sir, load again.’

　　‘Take away his gun,’ cried Mr. Pickwick from the barrow,horror-stricken at the long man’s dark insinuations. ‘Take awayhis gun, do you hear, somebody?’

　　Nobody, however, volunteered to obey the command; and Mr.

　　Winkle, after darting a rebellious glance at Mr. Pickwick, reloadedhis gun, and proceeded onwards with the rest.

　　We are bound, on the authority of Mr. Pickwick, to state, thatMr. Tupman’s mode of proceeding evinced far more of prudenceand deliberation, than that adopted by Mr. Winkle. Still, this by nomeans detracts from the great authority of the latter gentleman,on all matters connected with the field; because, as Mr. Pickwickbeautifully observes, it has somehow or other happened, from timeimmemorial, that many of the best and ablest philosophers, whohave been perfect lights of science in matters of theory, have beenwholly unable to reduce them to practice.

　　Mr. Tupman’s process, like many of our most sublimediscoveries, was extremely simple. With the quickness andpenetration of a man of genius, he had at once observed that thetwo great points to be attained were―first, to discharge his piecewithout injury to himself, and, secondly, to do so, without dangerto the bystanders―obviously, the best thing to do, aftersurmounting the difficulty of firing at all, was to shut his eyesfirmly, and fire into the air.

　　On one occasion, after performing this feat, Mr. Tupman, onopening his eyes, beheld a plump partridge in the act of falling,wounded, to the ground. He was on the point of congratulatingMr. Wardle on his invariable success, when that gentlemanadvanced towards him, and grasped him warmly by the hand.

　　‘Tupman,’ said the old gentleman, ‘you singled out thatparticular bird?’

　　‘No,’ said Mr. Tupman―‘no.’

　　‘You did,’ said Wardle. ‘I saw you do it―I observed you pickhim out―I noticed you, as you raised your piece to take aim; and Iwill say this, that the best shot in existence could not have done itmore beautifully. You are an older hand at this than I thought you,Tupman; you have been out before.’ It was in vain for Mr. Tupmanto protest, with a smile of self-denial, that he never had. The verysmile was taken as evidence to the contrary; and from that timeforth his reputation was established. It is not the only reputationthat has been acquired as easily, nor are such fortunatecircumstances confined to partridge-shooting.

　　Meanwhile, Mr. Winkle flashed, and blazed, and smoked away,without producing any material results worthy of being noteddown; sometimes expending his charge in mid-air, and at otherssending it skimming along so near the surface of the ground as toplace the lives of the two dogs on a rather uncertain andprecarious tenure. As a display of fancy-shooting, it was extremelyvaried and curious; as an exhibition of firing with any preciseobject, it was, upon the whole, perhaps a failure. It is anestablished axiom, that ‘every bullet has its billet.’ If it apply in anequal degree to shot, those of Mr. Winkle were unfortunatefoundlings, deprived of their natural rights, cast loose............