A Humorous Story.
by Fox Russell.
Originally published in The Novel Magazine (C. Arthur Pearson, Ltd.) vol.2 #9 (Dec 1905).
An entertaining account of a shooting-party, one of whose members was entirely unskilled in the use of a gun.
Mr. "Bob" Hummock had risen from very humble beginnings to riches which, if not "beyond the dreams of avarice," were yet of very considerable magnitude. And, like many another man before him, he determined to "have a cut at sport." He took a place in the country, bought horses, guns, and rods—none of which did he know how to use. But when one day his next neighbour, Squire Bean, asked him over for a day's shooting, Mr. Hummock joyfully accepted.
Bob drove over next morning, he himself handling the reins. And whenever, he elected to do the driving his groom "sat tight," thought of his wife and children, and prepared for the worst.
Away they went down the long avenue leading to the lodge gates. Bob's off wheel caught and sent flying the gardener's barrow—the man himself had hurriedly taken to flight when he saw that his master was driving—then having, meantime, driven over a heap of stones, he "shaved" the gate post and jolted out into the high road.
Without further mishap he reached Squire Bean's gates, turned so sharply in at them that both he and the groom were shot off the seat on to the floor, and, rounding the drive, cut a thin strip of turf off the lawn with his near wheel, as he pulled up at the front door.
The Squire welcomed him—albeit with a rueful glance at the injured lawn—and he was soon introduced to the four other "guns." who were to form the party.
One of them was in the midst of telling some story of the damage caused by an inexperienced shot, and when he had finished, he turned to Mr. Hummock, and asked:
"Now, don't you think it was very reprehensible for a man like that to come out shooting at all, sir?"
"Most disgustin', most disgustin'!" emphatically assented Bob, who had never had a gun in his hand before.
Presently the head keeper announced to his master that all was ready, and the gentlemen moved off in the direction of the first covert they were to shoot.
Arrived at the appointed spot the keeper duly posted the guns—with a strict eye to the size of the prospective "tips"—the biggest "tipper" being naturally assigned the finest place, and his own master, from whom of course no "little offering" was to be expected, the worst. The army of beaters, including in its ranks the village constable, the postman, several of the school children, and all the local "loafers," was set to work, and then began the fun.
As the beaters, rattling with their sticks and making uncouth noises, gradually drove the game in, and approached the guns, rabbits bolted, pheasants rose whirring up over the tree-tops, or dashing through the thin, leafless branches, to meet their fate on the far side of the wood.
A hen bird flew past Bob at easy range. He raised his gun and pulled the trigger—but in vain. He had forgotten to load!
Making some, let us say, hasty observations, he snatched up two cartridges, intending to drop them in at the muzzle. An under-keeper fortunately saw him in the act, and dashed forward to prevent the mistake.
"Oh, hang it, yes! I remember now! You shove 'em into the breech instead. Ah, that's it! Now we'll make another start."
"Whirr—!" went a cock pheasant, rocketing high overhead. Bob let fly, and not having held the gun tightly enough to his shoulder, received a severe "kick" from the recoil of the weapon, which very nearly knocked him down.
"Con—found it all!" he cried, rubbing his shoulder, and then his cheekbone, both of which had suffered badly. "This is worse than 'untin'! Thought the beastly gun 'ad knocked my 'ead off! Missed the bird, too. Well, better luck next time."
"Bird to you, sir," cried one of the helpers in warning tones.
"Glad to 'ear it," said Bob complacently, "though I don't remember killin it!" he added, with a twinkle in his eye. He lost his chance of that also, and the man next to him brought it down with his first barrel. Then a rabbit suddenly bolted out of the ditch, not ten yards from our hero's feet. He banged away at it, and literally blew it to pieces.
There was a roar of laughter, but Bob smiled happily. It was the first thing he had ever shot—except with a catapault—and he was correspondingly delighted.
"Too close, you say? Not a bit of it! You can make sure o' the beggars then!"
Out came three fine cock pheasants, following each other in single file, and flying low. Bob missed with his right barrel, then, following the bird round, he let drive with the left. As the smoke cleared away, he saw that he had not touched the bird, but that an under-keeper had clapped his hands to his coat-tails, and was doing a sprint in the direction of the house.
"Hullo!" said our friend, watching the rapid retreat of the damaged man, "he's got his share of it, anyhow! Don't suppose the man's much 'urt—these shots are very small."
The Squire ventured on a gentle remonstrance. "I think, Mr. Hummock, if you'll allow me to suggest, that you should take a glance round to see if anyone is in the way before—"
"Oh, don't apologise, Squire, don't apologise," broke in Bob genially, "I don't mind 'im gettin' in the way—of course it spoilt my shot—but we all of us 'ave to put up with something from our servants, don't we?"
Handsome old Squire Bean looked rather embarrassed. "Er—I don't think I made myself quite plain—"
"You couldn't do it, sir, you couldn't do it!" exclaimed Bob with genuine admiration. "Such a good-lookin' man couldn't be plain, not under no circumstances."
"I—I meant to say that however keen we may be on the sport," persevered the Squire desperately, "we must not endanger human life."
"Oh, certainly, certainly; but bless ye, Squire, don't you worry—that chap's life ain't in no danger. I 'it 'im on quite a safe place!"
The Squire gave it up then in despair.
Presently they walked across some fallow fields, towards the next covert. One of the "guns," Sir Theophilus Plumtre, baronet and J.P., a very great man in his own estimation, was walking beside Bob, and having witnessed his very wild shooting, endeavoured, in a patronising manner, to give him some good advice.
"You've not had much experience, I presume, Mr. Hummock?" he began.
"Oh, plenty of experience!" returned Bob genially. "Why, I began life at seven an' six a week and 'ere I am now, at five an' forty, 'ale and 'earty and with—well—I 'ardly know 'ow much, myself. P'raps able to buy up 'arf the county. Experience! Ah, I believe ye, my boy!"
The J.P. looked slightly disgusted. This lack of deference annoyed him.
"I meant experience in—er—sport," he said somewhat stiffly.
"Sport? Why, bless yer heart, I had a turn at 'untin' the other day and led the whole field—for a bit—and you should see me at skittles! I'm a real terror at the knock-em-downs! Tell ye what, Plummy, old boy"—Sir Theophilus positively squinted, so great was the indignation expressed in his aristocratic face—"we'll have a match in the skittle alley for a steak and baked pertaters! We'll—"
"Er—thank you, Mr. Hummock, my sporting accomplishments do not include—include—er—skittling."
"Ah," rejoined Bob pityingly, "education been neglected, I s'pose?"
Sir Theophilus tried for a moment to wither his plebeian acquaintance with a look of haughty scorn; but Mr. Hummock did not wither easily, and the great man at once dropped back on the excuse of wishing to speak to his host. The baronet was entirely discomfited.
Within fifty yards of the spinny they were making for, the noise of a sudden explosion startled them half out of their senses. Bob had unconsciously pressed the trigger of his weapon, which had "gone off" as boys say. Fortunately the charge had found decent burial in mother earth and done no mischief.
Mr. Hummock, who had dropped his gun with a yell, at the moment of the discharge, was the first to recover his equanimity. He laughed as he picked up the weapon again, and, turning to the baronet, said:
"Plummy, see what a thing it is to carry a gun safely. Now, yours, 'eld as you're 'oldin' it now, would have blown somebody's 'ead off, whilst mine did no 'arm at all!"
This sudden "carrying the war into the enemy's country" quite took aback the great J.P. And as, alarmed by the unexpected report, he actually was holding his own weapon, just for a moment or so, at a dangerous angle, the laugh was entirely on Bob's side.
During the posting of the guns it might have been noticed that none of the party betrayed any great anxiety to occupy places within range of Bob's erratic prowess. And after that well-meaning gentleman had missed no fewer than seven birds in succession, and blown one which came within a few feet of him into a cloud of feathers, the head-keeper gave him up as a bad job, and beat a hasty retreat round the corner of the covert to comparative safety.
Thus the morning wore on, Squire Bean becoming more and more filled with nervous dread, until one o'clock brought temporary relief, in the shape of the luncheon. All the "guns." did thorough justice to this, and no one enjoyed himself more than–perhaps we might say so much as—Bob. Failure had not daunted him—in fact, it might fairly be said of his shooting that "age could not wither, nor custom stale its infinite variety." For no one knew what was coming next.
As the Squire was saving some of the other coverts for a future shoot, he proposed that after their meal they should wind up the day's sport by ferreting the warren banks, and "having a bang at the bunnies."
The head-keeper and two of his underlings accompanied the party to work the ferrets, and, after cigars and pipes had put a pleasant finish on the luncheon, off they all went to the honeycombed banks. Two smart dogs accompanied them.
Arrived on the scene of action, the head keeper (who in the interests of safety had been surreptitiously tipped half-a-sovereign by Sir Theophilus to undertake the job) proceeded to drop Bob a pretty broad hint that he must be more careful with his gun.
Robins ranged up alongside, and with a preliminary clearing of his throat, began:
"Now this sort of shootin's rayther dangerous, you see, sir, and—"
"Oh, I'm not afraid!" answered Bob promptly. "I ain't a nervous man, not a bit."
The keeper dry-shaved his chin.
"No, sir, no. But that wasn't what you might call precisely what I meant. I—"
"Then what did you mean?" inquired our hero bluntly.
"Well, it's this way, you see, sir. You must be very careful. You mustn't let off your gun—"
"Then 'ow am I to 'it a rabbit, if I don't? You don't suppose I want to run after 'im and knock 'im down with a stick?"
"No, sir, no. My meanin' is, that 'arf the guns standin' one side of the 'edge, and 'arf standin' on the other, it's 'ighly dangerous if you was to fire across—"
"Now," interrupted Mr. Hummock, with a touch of indignation in his tones, "I ask you straight out, am I to shoot if I see a rabbit, or am I to shy 'arf a brick at 'im? You're makin' yourself 'ighly ridiculous. Ain't 'e, Plummy?" he concluded, appealing to the baronet, who was standing by, and watching to see that the keeper genuinely earned his "tip."
Sir Theophilus pretended not to hear him, and walked hurriedly away.
The first ferret was put in, and the "guns." stood round, eagerly watching the hole from which a rabbit might be expected to bolt. "Week, week, week!" was heard from the bowels of the earth, then a scuffling sound, and out came "bunny"; the squire promptly fired and rolled him over.
Another wait, and Bob, all eagerness, yet took the precaution of marking down where all his fellow-guns stood, in order to avoid the necessity of a coroner's inquest afterwards. Out came a rabbit, and he fired his right and left, missing handsomely with both barrels.
"D—ear me!" cried he, pulling himself up, just in time. He had been told that it was not good form to use "cuss-words," and very rarely forgot the warning, except under the influence of abnormal excitement.
The rest of the sportsmen breathed more freely for the few moments during which Bob's gun was empty. Then he slipped a couple of cartridges in, and the tension was at once revived.
Each time a rabbit came out to Bob, and he raised his weapon, every head was instinctively ducked. Each member of the party prepared for the worst. A languid young man, who had been bored even at Monte Carlo, whispered to his neighbour that at last he had found a lively interest in existence. And he added, with a meaning look in the direction of Mr. Hummock:
"You never know your luck!"
They moved on down the hedgerow, shooting, with varying fortune, until the short winter's afternoon drew to its close. Just before the light began to fail, a great chance of a shot fell to Bob's share. A rabbit was bolted and ran out clear into the meadow in which he was standing. He fired—well behind it—missed the rabbit and severely "peppered" the dog which had broken away in pursuit. Nipper promptly tucked his tail between his legs, let go a howl which would have called a blush of envy to the cheek of a Sioux Indian, and "streaked" for home. The next moment Bob caught sight of another moving piece of fur at the mouth of the burrow, let fly at it, and bagged—the ferret!
And looking up in blank dismay towards where the other men had just been standing, he beheld a curious and unexpected sight. For they had scattered in all directions, and were now in full retreat, intent only on avoiding further mischances from Mr. Hummock's lethal weapon. They were literally running for their lives!
Bob heaved a sigh, and, turning to the keeper, who stood with ashen face, a few yards off, and carefully in the rear of the gun, said:
"Shootin' don't seem to be my game, any more than 'untin did. In the one I'm always knockin' things about, in the other I get knocked about myself. Gaiters, here's a sovereign for you—I dessay you've earned it if you're of a nervous disposition I expect I've kept you pretty much on the qui vive"—Bob pronounced this as spelt "to-day. Tell your master I'm much obliged for 'is kind invitation to shoot–and that I shall be glad to see 'im over at my place any day 'e likes to pay me a visit."
"Yes, sir, thank you, sir," said Robins, as he pocketed the tip, and with heartfelt relief saw Mr. Hummock put up his gun. Then he picked up the dead ferret and looked deprecatingly, first at it, and then at Bob.
Bob tumbled to this gentle but expressive pantomime, dived deep into his pocket and fished out another sovereign, which he handed to the keeper.
"This'll get ye a new ferret," he said, rather red about the cheeks as he spoke the words.
Then, without approaching the house—for he rightly judged that an interview between himself and Squire Bean's party was not a thing at that moment to be desired—he shouldered his gun and tramped sturdily off in the direction of home.
On that journey Mr. Hummock turned over the matter of sport generally in his mind, and quickly settled that he must abandon the idea of shooting. The day's experience had amply proved that he was quite as likely to hit that which he did not aim at, as the object he did. And as he mentally reviewed his "bag," he became more and more persuaded that some other amusement must be discovered.
He lit a cigar, and after puffing at it in solemn silence for ten minutes, he murmured, "Let's see—items—
"One rabbit.—Blowed to blazes!
"One pheasant.— Do. do.
"One keeper.—'It' im 'ard, but dessay it won't do no real 'arm—must send 'im a sovereign.
"One dawg.—Peppered 'im up, an no mistake; don't suppose he'll want to sit down for a week—but that'll be all right.
"One ferret.—Made no error about killin' 'im anyway! He's as dead as mutton."
He puffed on; then, as if again contemplating the past doings of the day, he ended his soliloquy thus:
"No, Bob, my boy, it's not good enough, and a jolly sight too dangerous. Shootin' is definitely 'off.'"